


The Faintest Tang of Freedom

by Rinari7



Series: Koreth and Vera [1]
Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Abuse, Charr (Guild Wars), F/M, Flame Legion (Guild Wars), Gen, Spies & Secret Agents, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-13 05:55:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 23,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21489439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rinari7/pseuds/Rinari7
Summary: His instinct is to investigate. She's always looking over her shoulder. It's a little inevitable.
Series: Koreth and Vera [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/478408
Kudos: 2





	1. Koreth Finds Cirellen

**Author's Note:**

> Most of these characters are mine, though Virion, Azalus, and Chandra belong to their respective players. Some NPCs and of course the setting and Charr as a race belong to ArenaNet.

Cirellen untied her chef's apron and hung it on the hook with a sigh, glancing around herself—a nervous habit she hadn't broken yet. Maybe it was best so. She wasn't sure if her sire was still here in the Citadel, and the thought of that possibility made her hunch down a little more. It was something she tried _not_ to think about.

The Factorium was clearing out, and she nodded to a few mildly familiar faces she'd seen often over these past few days, tidying her kitchen space a little more as she waited for most of the traffic to dissipate.

Another glance around, and she noticed a Charr just standing there. His face was mostly covered by a hood, and while she couldn't tell what he was looking at he was facing in her direction, and some urge made her turn her head away and draw in a nervous breath.

Pawsteps caused her to look up, and her left ears started to twitch slowly in that nervous tic she'd always had. The Charr who had been standing there pushed his hood back as he approached. Slightly narrowed, pale green eyes that she didn't like the looks of immediately, a mottled gray pelt, and narrow, not-too obvious but still very sharp and dangerous teeth. His mane was cropped short and stood up in a line down his neck. He still looked relatively young, but old enough to know exactly what he was doing.

Cirellen finished wiping down the counter and faced him as his eyes traveled her up and down slowly. She let just a little of her teeth show; she resented being eyed as if she were a piece of meat to be bought. It reminded her too much of the way a certain Flame officer used to eye her before--

“Are you Cirellen?” His low, quiet voice kept her from going down that memory lane as he offered her a slight smile.

She blinked and eyed him, her left ears starting to twitch a little more. “Yeah. Who's asking?” He wore a longer leather coat and two very sharp daggers among the other pouches on his belt. She trusted those who wore daggers even less than those who didn't—the only thing they were useful for was stabbing someone in the back from the shadows.

“Koreth Shadowdancer. Hail, Cirellen.” He dipped his head slightly in greeting, standing easily with his paws hanging by his sides. “I'd like to take up cooking and I'm looking for someone who would be willing to teach me.”

She blinked several times and took a second look at him, caught off guard by the unexpected request. “Why? And why me?”

He scratched his neck behind his right ears as he responded. “Well, my old warband's field cook was horrible, and my new warband doesn't even have one, and I'm tired of soggy potatoes and charred meat for dinner when we're not stationed in the Citadel.”

“All right, but why me?”

He scratched his neck again. “Why not you? I figured you seemed pretty confident, competent, and you seem to have some extra time, not rushing off for a night at the bar like everyone else. I mean, and who couldn't use a little extra coin? But if you don't want to...” he shrugged. “It's up to you.”

Her left ears continued to twitch, but after a moment's deliberation she nodded. “All right. Tomorrow evening, then. Be here at 6.”

He smiled. “I'll bring the coin then. I appreciate it.”

She started walking out of the Factorium along with the various stragglers and late-r workers. Of course the real fanatics stayed at their workstations, a lamp nearby with some oil, flint and steel, but most of the cooks had left already. Burnpaw was, as always, still sniffing his latest simmering concoction, though his workstation smelled faintly of singed fur.

Koreth walked with her. “So how'd you decide on cooking as your profession?”

She glanced at him. _A nosy one, apparently._ But there was no reason to snap at him yet. “It just... came, I guess. More easily than combat.” Her tone was guarded.

“I see. And you've been in the Citadel for a while?”

“No.”

He glanced sideways at her. “Where were you before? And how long have you been here?”

“Not long.” Her tone was curt as she glanced sideways at him. _Damn, he's nosy._

“So have you made many friends yet?” He glanced at her again with a slight smirk. “Anyone 'special'?” If he thought _he_ would end up as that “someone”, he had another thought coming. She turned to him with a snarl. “No, and it's none of your business.”

He took a step back, holding up a paw as if to ward her off, eyeing her with a mixture of bewilderment and disbelief. “Relax. It was just a question. Are you always this touchy?”

She blinked and looked at the ground for a few seconds. A normal Charr wouldn't react the way she had. She wasn't exactly helping herself to keep a low profile like she wanted. Her left ears began to twitch more. “Sorry. Bad day at work. And it's--” she forced the words out, since most 'normal' females didn't have any trouble talking about it, it seemed “--that time of the month, you know.” She offered him what was meant to be a wolfish grin but it came out rather nervous, making it into a grimace.

“Ah, I see. Well,” he glanced at the Serrated Blade as they walked by, “do you think a drink or two would help?”

She kept walking, frowning at the memory of the one time she had let herself drink very much at all. “I don't drink.” Her tone was curt again.

*****

_Moody bitch. No idea why Azalus would want to hang out with this girl—assuming this is the right Cirellen_. But Koreth kept his thoughts to himself and his tone even. “That's fine. It doesn't have to be alcohol. Maybe just some company, a little relaxing conversation...?”

The petite, light-furred female stopped and looked at him, her bright blue eyes narrowed as the two left ones of her borderline comically large ears flicked up periodically. He was pretty sure it was a recent development since he had approached her, and wasn't sure what it meant. Anxiety? Anger? Arousal? He resisted the urge to curl his lip as he ruled the last option out. She sure as hell didn't act like she even really liked him.

“Look, I'll teach you how to cook. That doesn't mean you have to act like my best buddy, all right?” She glared at him for a moment longer before walking on.

He sensed he was pushing it too far. She apparently had issues; with what, he wasn't sure. He'd have to tone it down.

Koreth let her walk ahead a few steps, then followed. “I don't see what me trying to be friendly has done to upset you. I just thought you might like someone to hang out with since you say you haven't been here long. But sure, have it your way. Thanks for agreeing to teach me, at least.”

The only response he got was a reserved, still slightly curt “you're welcome” over her shoulder as she skirted the Imperator's Core—probably on her way to the Gladium's Canton, if he had to hazard a guess. His own pawsteps led him in the direction of Hero's Canton. Chandra seemed to have a knack for chatting with people—better than he did, he had to grudgingly admit. He wasn't sure what he should have done differently. Most Charr weren't borderline rude and twitchy like she was, especially when offered a drink. Well, Chandra wasn't twitchy, but rude and against drinking she was. Maybe the two females would hit it off.

And he would keep an eye on her in the meantime, see if he would have more success at small talk during his first cooking lesson.


	2. A Cooking Lesson

“Hail.” Koreth nodded to Cirellen as he walked up. “Punctual as promised. I'll pay you the same as I presume you're paid for an hour of regular work. Five silver.”

Cirellen looked up from her workstation and grunted, her eyes narrowed and her face sporting a frown. “This isn't regular work. Make it six silver and fifty coppers.”

His expression stayed mostly the same, although she noticed a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth even as his eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “Six.”

“Deal.” Cirellen nodded and jerked her head towards one of the other workstations. “Grab one of the aprons hanging up. I'm sure you don't want your fine coat to get oily.”

“It's leather. Oil doesn't matter.”  
“There's also meat juices and stuff. But suit yourself.”

He reached for an apron, then, and she felt smug for a moment. The feeling of knowing more, being someone else's superior in something, particularly a male's superior in a tangible way, gave her pause. She wasn't aware she was staring at Koreth until he arched an eyebrow at her. “What? Am I that interesting?”

She curled her lip and turned away, reminding herself of all ways someone could easily take advantage of her if they wanted. What was she going to do then, beat them over the head with a piece of meat? A shudder ran through her as she responded. “No.” As much as she tried to lace her voice with disdain, it came out more hesitant than she wanted.

She felt more than saw his eyes on her, and a shudder ran through her again. She glanced around, reassuring herself that the Factorium was still populated.

“So what's the lesson for today?” His tone held a note of joviality, and she glanced at him again. She hadn't actually thought about the arrangement further than the fact that the extra coin meant she could get out of this hellish place that much sooner.

Striving to seem competent, she straightened and pointed to the meat rack at the back of the cooking area. “Bring me several slabs. I want to see if you know which meat is which and how long to cook them.”

He nodded and padded softly over to the rack. She eyed him as she wiped down the workspace and pulled out a cutting board. He moved gracefully, scarcely making any noise, and carried back two slices of Moa breast, a side of beef, and one slab of a dolyak haunch.

“Do you know what you've got there?”

He glanced down at the pieces of meat in his paws. “Looks like bird and maybe beef, but I couldn't tell you for sure.”

“Moa, beef, and dolyak. Toss them on the grill.”

Eyeing her, he put the slabs on the grill and lit it. “Which is which? I mean, I guess the lighter colored, more stringy stuff is moa, but which is beef?”  
“Hey, hey, put the plate over the grating first unless you want them smoky!”

Koreth looked down to the metal plate leaning on the side of the grill, then at the slabs of meat. “Oh. Didn't know you had that.” He picked up the plate, slid the meat onto it, and put it over the grill.

“And open the vent.” Cirellen gestured to the handle on the pipe running out of the side of the grill. “Smoke's gotta go somewhere. Dolyak meat is darker, has a heavier texture, and has more fat in it.”

She didn't feel like she was teaching well, but he hadn't complained yet.

“How long have you been doing this?”

His question startled her, and she automatically tensed, then forced herself to relax. “A while.”

“A decade, at least?”

“More.”

He nodded, not seeming very nonplussed. “So you knew you liked cooking in the fahrar.”

“Ah, yeah. That's—right.” Her left ears began to twitch, and she turned to the meat on the grill. “Flip them.”

He turned them over. “Which fahrar did you attend?”

Her tail thrashed, but she tried to keep her voice even. “Are you here to socialize or for cooking lessons?”

“Is there any harm in enjoying conversation while taking cooking lessons?”

***

Koreth eyed her as he asked. Her reaction last time had been less than hospitable, but he needed the information.

“None of your business. Keep your eye on the meat. You tell me when it needs flipping this time. And it's not supposed to end up charred beyond recognition.” Her tone was gruff, and she turned away, her tail flipping from side to side with vigor. He wasn't sure whether she was upset, angry, anxious, or just antsy. He'd have to get better at reading her.

At any rate, she'd take some softening up. He sighed and turned to the meat. “I was raised not too far from here, in Diessa. Nolan fahrar. Figured out poisons would be one of my better friends in life there.”

“I certainly hope you washed your paws thoroughly before touching that.” Her voice was definitely more unstable than before, her ears twitching, and she kept her eyes on the food, her arms folded over her chest.

“Don't worry, I always clean up. I don't want to poison myself, you can be sure of that.”

“I'd hope so.”

The smell of sizzling meat turned slightly sour, and he dug the spatula under one of the slices of moa. It offered resistance, the underside turning brown and the juices sticking to the metal plate.

She clicked her tongue, holding her nose a little higher, her whiskers twitching as she wrinkled her nose. “That's what you don't want. Juices should stay in the meat. Moa needs less time than beef. Flip the moa so it's at least evenly burnt, and take the other slabs off.” She thrust a plate in his direction before grabbing a knife, cutting board, and several vegetables and herbs from a rack. He took the plate and sighed again.

“Something bothering you?” So she had noticed it. He shook his head curtly.

***

Cirellen began chopping, her motions quick and efficient, the blade flying, before she remembered that the point was for him to watch and learn. She stopped and nudged him with an elbow.

“Watch. Fastest way to chop stuff is to only lift the back edge of the knife. Onions should be squares of about half a centimeter, and leave an edge so you're not trying to keep a bunch of strips together with your paws when you cut the other way.”

He set the plate, which he had filled with meat, down on the counter and turned the stove down. “You certainly know how to use a knife. Don't tell me you moonlight as a dagger-throwing assassin.” He smiled slightly.

She frowned and shook her head. He did come up with strange ideas—and was far too chatty for her tastes. “No, I don't. Chop.” She brusquely shoved the cutting board and the second onion towards him on the counter, then handed him the knife.

Her tail flipped from side to side as she knelt to get a small pot out of the cabinet beneath the counter. He set her on edge, but then so did everyone who wasn't your standard customer, when she wasn't familiar with them. Other than that... perhaps he would be decent if she gave him a chance. Azalus had been fine. They did treat females differently...

She bumped her head on the counter getting up, and grunted, testing the area with a paw. Koreth looked up from cutting the onion. “Are you all right?”  
“Hit my head. I'll be fine.” She set the pot on the hot plate, glancing at the cutting board, where the onion lay in neat squares. “Huh. Apparently you know how to use a knife. Not that I'm surprised.” She glanced at the daggers hanging on his belt before reaching for a can of cream.

He watched as she poured some into the pot, then began to stir. “You can cut mushrooms, can't you? Wash them first.” She nodded towards a large sack in the corner of the kitchen.

***

Koreth inhaled, closing his eyes for a moment. The food in front of him wasn't anything fancy, cuts of meat in an onion-mushroom-and-cream sauce, with salt and pepper thrown in, but it was a heck of a lot better than the mess he'd had often while out in the field. It smelled good, at least--well, if you ignored the slightly overcooked moa meat. Despite her manner he was rather satisfied with his choice of teacher—at least as far as her cooking skills went.

“What am I supposed to do with four meals?” He looked at the plates in front of him, each with a cut of meat on it.

The tip of her tail flicker back and forth for a moment before she answered. “I don't know. Eat them, take them with you for your bandmates—or I could take some. I'm sure there are a few in the Gladium Canton” —a grimace flitted across her face— “who would scarf it down.”

“Gladium Canton. Not a great place.” He watched her to gauge her reaction.

She seemed guarded, but more relaxed than the previous evening. “Tell me about it.”

“Hey, you want to take two of these? I can't carry more than two, anyways.”

She shrugged slightly. “Sure. Leave them on the counter, and I'll take them with me when I'm done here. I've still got to clean up.”

“All right. I probably won't be able to make it tomorrow—got a sparring session planned.”

“That's fine. Just come by when you've got time. I'm not going anywhere—at least not at the moment.”

“So you have plans to go somewhere else?”

“No.” She turned and began wiping down the counters.

After a moment's deliberation, Koreth took that as his cue to leave, taking two of the dishes with him. He felt slightly odd carrying plates through the Factorium like a long-distance waiter, but there was no sense in wasting food, and there was certain to be someone loitering around the Forum who'd be glad for the free meal.

On the way back, he began mentally composing his preliminary report.

_Guarded, unwilling to open up and talk, at times overly hostile and agitated. Behavior suspicious, recommend further surveillance and attempts to get into her confidence. Seems to be a decent cook and teacher, for what it's worth._


	3. Hints and Suspicion

Koreth stepped into the Factorium, looking around for the small, light-furred female. Not seeing her, he frowned slightly.  
Burntpaw, her superior, was there, and Koreth approached him, clearing his throat to alert the cook to his presence. The older Charr turned to look at Koreth, and wrinkled his nose. “Whaddya want?”

“Have you seen Cirellen?”

“'Course not, today's her day off. Now leave me be.” The cook turned and began stirring the admittedly foul-smelling mixture in the pot on top of the fire.

Wrinkling his nose both at the smell and the older Charr's manner, Koreth turned and left. She had mentioned the Gladium Canton last time, hadn't she?

His pawsteps took him towards the elevator, while he ignored the hustle and bustle of the Citadel around him.

It was quieter in the Gladium Canton. He eyed the young, brown-furred Charr sitting slouched by the elevator with distaste, then pulled his hood up to cover more of his face and began scanning the area for Cirellen.

After a round of the Canton— avoiding a talkative Sylvari, a plainly deluded mouse, and what looked like a group of ex-Blood thugs — he finally found her crouched in a corner on the lower floor. Seated on a thin sleeping mat covered by a blanket, a bag beside it, she seemed to be concentrating on the book on her lap, flexing her left paw, a look of frustration on her face.

_At least I have a locker in Hero's Canton. She probably has to worry about her stuff getting snatched. _That thought was pushed away, since it wasn't relevant. She was the subject of an investigation, and had chosen this life.

Narrowing his eyes, he stepped closer, trying to discreetly view what she was reading.

She immediately thwarted him on that point, bending over the book, mouthing something. He didn't think she'd realized he was standing there quite yet, so he cleared his throat.

“Cirellen.”

She jumped, and with wide, panicked eyes drew a pistol he hadn't realized she'd been carrying — the holster had been hidden from his view on her opposite hip — and aimed at him.

***

The book tumbled from her lap as she stood slowly, keeping her arms steady like Farik taught her. _How didn't I notice him before now? I can't let my guard down like that. Father could still be in the Citadel._ The array of daggers the hooded male sported on a sash across his chest and on his belt made her swallow. She could feel her left ears twitching and spasming like they'd received an electric shock.

“Who are you? What do you want from me?” _No, he's probably a Flame infiltrator. He's here to kill me, or worse, take me back. I remember hearing rumors about the all-gray Smoke warband—stealth agents, used to eliminate deserters, able to throw a dagger faster than most can shoot..._ She began to tremble.

“Whoa, whoa.” He slowly raised his paws, using one to push the hood back to reveal his face. “It's just me, Koreth.”

His voice pierced through her frantic haze, and she looked at him, slowly realizing that it was, in fact, her cooking student. _Not that that precludes him being from Flame..._

“What are you doing here?”

“Is the gun really necessary?” He arched an eyebrow. “I'm not threatening you, and I don't like being aimed at by a girl who looks like she's about to have a seizure.” His gaze moved meaningfully to her ears and tail, which were indeed thrashing wildly around, without her consciously moving them.

Her thoughts churned. _If he wanted to kill me, he could probably do it whenever he wanted... If he wanted to kill me he probably wouldn't be talking... He could still want to kill me... but I'm probably not good enough to keep him from doing that if he wanted._ But she wouldn't let her guard completely down.

“Stay over there.” She slowly holstered the pistol, but kept one paw on it. “What. Are. You. Doing. Here?” Cirellen enunciated the words through her bared teeth. Keeping her eyes on him, she slowly knelt down to pick up the book, its pages crumpled now from its rough landing on the metal floor.

“I was looking for you. I went by the Factorium but you weren't there. Burnpaw said it was your day off.”

“Yeah. And I was in the middle of something, plus we have no facilities, so I'm not going to teach you today. Move along.” She stared at him. _Why did he come to me n the first place?_

***

Koreth felt his pulse gradually slowing. _Why the hell did the crazy bitch just pull a gun!?_ Charr drew weapons and picked fights all the time, but not usually just because you greeted them. _She's either overly aggressive or very frightened of something, or someone. Maybe all of the above._ He eyed her, debating whether any further attempts at conversation were worth it today. _Damn._ He'd probably just undone whatever progress he'd made getting into her confidence, though he had no idea what he'd done “wrong”.

He inhaled and decided to dive in anyways, cautiously lowering his paws, though he kept them where she could see them. “Good book?” He nodded towards the tome in her hand, the title proclaiming it _Mira Violetpaw's Cubs' Guide to Magic_. It was worn and battered, maybe from the small free “lending library” the Priory cultivated on a bookcase outside of their base in the Factorium. He mentally filed the information away.

“I guess.” She tossed the book on the sleeping mat behind her. “I don't hang out in taverns if I can help it, so I've gotta find something else to do in my free time.” She looked like she was about to cross her arms, but seemed reluctant to remove her paw from the pistol.

“Makes sense. So what sort of books do you like?”

“I like the books that I like.” She continued to frown, but the muscles spasms in her left ears seemed to be slowing down. He wondered if it was some sort of medical condition, or just a nervous tic.

“Any recommendations? I enjoy a good read every now and then.”

“No.” She stared at him, and he decided not to push any further when she obviously wanted to be rid of him.

“Well, have a good evening then. Enjoy your book.” Koreth nodded towards the paperback on her sleeping mat, raised a paw in a small wave, and began making his way back towards the Canton entrance.

He allowed himself a small smile as he pulled his hood up over his face. _She didn't talk much, but that doesn't mean I didn't learn something._

***

Cirellen eyed Koreth as he left. _Maybe I'm paranoid. I know I shouldn't act like it. But... why'd he pick me for lessons? I doubt Burnpaw would've recommended the newbie to a guy looking for a teacher. Maybe he really is Flame. I can't let him see what I think. On the other hand, if he isn't Flame, and I draw suspicion... but I can't afford to let my guard down if he is. I have to assume he is Flame. But then what's he playing at? Why doesn't he just kill me?_ Her mind whirling, she began to tremble, and stumbled back to a sitting position on the mat, not heeding the fact that she was sitting on the already crumpled book. A small storm of chaos magic swirled up in front of her for a few seconds before dissipating, but she was too lost in her thoughts to notice.


	4. Candid

Koreth took a deep breath as he entered the Factorium, mentally reviewing his strategy for approaching Cirellen this time. _Hood off, check,_ as he pushed his hood back from his face. _Don't mention it immediately, ask how she's doing, proceed quietly, about halfway through ask what was up the other day._ His pawsteps drew him nearer to the cooking stations, and he scanned the area for the small, light-furred figure.

He let out breath as he saw her, her back turned to him. He inspected her figure for weapons, and now wasn't surprised to find a pistol holster on her right hip. _Gotta be more careful, then._ He didn't have any visible weapons on him this time, although he always carried a hidden full-length dagger in his boot and a very small poisoned blade in a sheath strapped to his wrist beneath his sleeve.

His steps were intentionally loud as he approached. “Evening, Cirellen. I'm here for my cooking lesson.”

She turned, and the parade of expressions that flew across her face made him hide a smile—shock, surprise, nervousness, bewilderment, and then finally an attempt at a neutral expression, though the tip of her tail still twitched slowly in tandem with her left ears.

“Evening. I can't say I was expecting you.”

“That's all right. If you've got work to do I can just help you with that. I'd learn that way, too.”

She frowned. “We've got a group of Sylvari tourists who requested salad. If you want...” Shrugging slightly, Cirellen pulled another cutting board and knife from the rack and handed them to Koreth. “Tomatoes are on the produce rack.”

Koreth took the proffered utensils and laid them on the counter before walking across the work area to grab a cluster of tomatoes.

Cirellen kept her paws busy chopping onions, despite blinking several times from the fumes. “Carve out the green part where it was attached to the stem, then slice them in eighths. Remember to slice and not hack—slide the knife when cutting.”

Cutting and slicing was not a large issue for Koreth; the only problem was that the tomatoes wanted to keep slipping out of his paws, and he had to make sure to not pierce them with his claws.

Cirellen flipped the slabs of chicken on the grill, going about her business silently and efficiently, although Koreth didn't miss the brief glances she constantly tossed his way.

“I'm done with the tomatoes. What now?” The juice stained his paws, but neat slices of tomato lined the cutting board.

She eyed the result of his work and gave an approving nod. “Cucumber next. Same deal, wash and slice. Shouldn't take you long.” Koreth followed the pointed claw with a small sigh.

“Got any tips for me on exactly how to put a salad together or anything?”

She stopped and looked at him. “I don't think it's something your warband would really salivate about. I mean... it's basically a bunch of vegetables and fruits and maybe cheese or meat if you have a little, thrown together with a sauce. Obviously some stuff tastes better in combination with others, but that's a matter of taste and experience.” Her tone was tense, but far less gruff than it had been previously. _I don't know if she's scared of me now or less so. She obviously thought I wouldn't come back after she threatened me, but she hasn't mentioned the incident. Far less direct than any Blood, that's for sure._

“I see.” _Didn't order me to focus on chopping the cucumber for her, either._

***

Cirellen turned and busied herself with taking the meat off the grill. _Why did he come back? What does he want with me?_

In a way, it was almost comforting to know that he had a hint about who she was, that he had the chance to kill her or drag her kicking and screaming to whichever authority he served—Citadel or Flame Legion—and he hadn't yet. It was comforting to realize that worry was futile—although that didn't stop her from trying to figure out who he was, and what, if anything, he wanted from her.

His persistence suggested he did want something from her. The lack of repercussions after their previous meeting suggested it was something personal. She couldn't, for the life of her, think what it could be.

She took little notice of her task, performing it mechanically as she mulled over the puzzle he presented her with, her left ears twitching as she tried to push down the creeping panic.

Only when she had finished chopping the chicken and was preparing to put the salad together did she realize he had also chopped the cucumbers as expertly as he had the tomatoes.

***

“Ah, thanks.” She cleared her throat as she seemed to snap out of her reverie. “I guess I don't need to give you much training with a knife. Uhm... which other ingredients do you think would mesh well with this?” She gestured to the smorgasbord of ingredients: lettuce, tomatoes, cucumber, chicken, and onions laid out on the counter.

“Why are you asking me about this?”

She started to roll her eyes, then stopped and swallowed. _Interesting._ “Well, I have a few ideas of my own, but I want to know yours. You have a working nose and mouth, right? I assume you know what tastes good.”

“Meat.”

She closed her eyes. “Anything else?”

“Sauce and spices generally help.”

“Thank you. Any suggestions? What works for both chicken and vegetables?”

He folded his arms across his chest. “If you obviously know what it is, why not just tell me? I'm pretty good at retaining information.”

“I never thought warriors were that great at remembering anything than what they were supposed to hit .” She closed her eyes and winced slightly.

“Good thing I'm not exactly a warrior, then.”

“What are you?”

“I believe the term is generally 'spy'.”

She seemed to shrink away slightly from him at that. It could have just been a trick of his imagination, but she looked to slide her left footpaw away from him and hunch her shoulders. _If she's an infiltrator, she's a lousy one. Helluva a lot of tells. I should make sure I don't have any..._ Temporarily distracted by his thoughts, he crossed his arms and straightened slightly, not noticing she took longer than most would to reply.

Her tone was relatively stable, though. “I guess you'd have to be good at remembering stuff, then.”

“And if I'm not, it means I take more lessons and you get more money from me. Win-win.”

“Right. You generally want something fatty as a sauce, either cream or oil. Oil and vinegar is simple, tastes good, goes with just about anything.”

She turned and began to pour oil and vinegar into a jar, then added a few spices from the rack above the station. “I'm adding dried garlic flakes, pepper, basil, and oregano. Gives the dressing an extra kick, for those who don't like their stuff bland.”

“Okay.” He tapped his paw on the ground, suddenly restless. “I'm not out to get you.” The statement surprised him somewhat, despite the fact that it came from his own muzzle, soft and quiet, like an infiltrator slipping past defenses. _And I'm not. Just here to figure out what her connection to Azalus is, if she's... actually, I have no idea how this quiet little fry cook would have anything to do with his erratic behavior. Might be easier to just ask about her connection... but that makes it too easy for her to lie, puts her on her guard if there is something._

She froze for a moment, then turned her head towards him as she grabbed a long-handled spoon and began to stir the mixture, the dark vinegar and light oil swirling together. “Why would I think you're out to get me?”

“You didn't deny it. And you're jumpy around me. I've got no weapons, see?” He pulled his overcoat back to show underneath it as well, his eyes fixed on her face.

She glanced at him, and he smirked slightly. “Look, I don't know what you think about me, but I'm tired of you jumping when I'm around, jumping on me, pulling a gun on me. I never did anything to you. If you've got a problem with me, tell me.”

She was obviously stunned, and he could see her tail tip twitching. It was almost mesmerizing, back and forth. Her left ears began to twitch, first faster, then slowing down. It was amusing to watch. He was starting to pin her down: surprise, then confusion, then panic, the gears turning in her head, and finally relaxing somewhat, though she obviously chose her words carefully.

“No, you've never done anything to me. Forgive me if I'm rather mistrustful; something I'd prefer not to talk about. You can rest reassured it's not just you I'm 'jumpy' around—if I am indeed 'jumpy'.”

“Okayy...” He drew out the word and the silence but when she obviously refused to offer any more information, he exhaled softly and let it go.

She turned, obviously dismissing the subject as she began building a salad. Lettuce on the bottom, with onions mixed in: “I left the dirt in. Less work for me and the plants probably love it” said she with a rather mean smirk; then a ring of tomatoes, a small ring of cucumber slices inside that, the chicken as a “centerpiece”, then the dressing was drizzled over the food.  
“At least it looks good,” was Koreth's wry comment.

“It's not going to taste bad, either.” Her tone was defensive.

“Relax, I didn't mean to imply anything.”

She gestured to the row of empty plates still on the counter. “You can help with the rest.”

In silence, Koreth moved towards the counter and tried to copy her composition of the salads.

At least putting ingredients on a plate didn't take much skill. She made them faster, though.

After all were done, she began carrying them to one of the tables. Nobody sat at it, but a small placard declared it “reserved”.

“I guess that's my cue to leave.”

“Yep.” Her reply was short, but the note of hostility that had haunted her voice was gone. Now it was just curt, businesslike. “I don't have any more work. And since you helped me with my work instead of making more work for me, I'm not going to ask you to pay.”

“I'm going to be deployed for a while, but when I come back, I assume you don't have any problem with giving me lessons again?”

“No. If you want to keep taking them.” She shrugged, grabbed a wet cloth from the nearby sink, and began wiping down the counters.

“You've been a perfectly satisfactory teacher so far.”

She bristled for a moment, then nodded. “I'm a cook, not a primus.”

“I know that.” He kept his tone neutral bordering on friendly as he turned to leave.

***

She let herself exhale slowly in relief as he turned to leave, her thoughts still slowly churning. She wouldn't have expected a spy to be so candid—unless he wanted to precisely be what people didn't expect, to throw people off his trail... She shuddered slightly and turned to finish wiping down the counters.

The fact that, a minute later, he appeared beside her as if out of thin air was, to say the least, unnerving. She managed to keep herself from jumping or shrieking, but she bumped her elbow against the counter and her ears plastered themselves to her head. He pushed his hood back, looking her in the eye, and not giving her a chance to speak. “If you're trying to hide something, or hide _from_ something, try to act less nervous. Makes you stand out, makes people suspicious.”

As he turned to leave, she felt a strange sense of déja vu that skittered down her spine. His words churned over in her head, and she fought against the panic that was starting to paralyze her. _I stand out._

She stared after him until he was gone, and then it was a while longer before she could pull herself together to finish cleaning her station.

***

Koreth felt the panic radiating off her in tangible waves as he turned to leave. He knew without looking that her eyes were fixated on him as he walked away. The wisdom of his actions was debatable, and he was already mentally practicing how he'd justify it in his report. _The advice should convince her I'm on her side, and her reaction to me over the coming weeks should reveal a good deal. _At least he hoped it would.


	5. Interim

Over the course of that brief stint in the Iron Marches under Virion to help Azalus, Koreth had continued to review his personal notes on Cirellen, watch Azalus, and mull over the situation. Azalus didn't seem unusually irritable, which prompted another note in his small journal under _“Azalus – Cirellen connection”_: “No sex???”

On the next page was a list simply labeled _“Cirellen”_. The list was far longer than the one on the previous page.   
_“-Looks for Azalus on occasion. Not often.   
__-Seen with him near the border to the Steppes, when he was fetched back by Virion the first time.  
__ -Became a cook in the Factorium apparently not too long after abovementioned sighting. _  
-No mention in any of the High Legions' records that I could find.   
-Experienced cook, been doing it for a while.   
-Claims not to enjoy fighting, but carries and pistol and I'm fairly sure I saw a sword in her bag in the Gladiums' Canton.   
-Extremely nervous, claims it's not just me.   
-Frequent ear twitches; possible epileptic tendencies or just a nervous tic? (Check with medics when back at BC)   
-Read “Mira Violetpaw's Cubs' Guide to Magic”, fahrar text, basic one with a little more depth about mesmers. (Reading level? May have been mouthing words) Possibly from Priory “Lending Library” (Also might ask Priory members if they've noticed her)   
-Remarkably closed-lipped about her past.   
-Doesn't like to drink alcohol.   
-Pulled a gun when startled (Questions about who I was, what I was doing there. Anger? Fright? Defensive?)   
-Apparently doesn't like taverns.   
-Not many friends from the looks of it.”

Better than the other list, but not by much for the several weeks since he'd been investigating everything. Short of tailing one or both of them, he wasn't really sure how to get much more information, either. And, given the fact that Azalus seemed to have calmed a little since the warband began to support his quest for revenge, he wasn't sure that such measures were absolutely necessary at the moment. After all, wasn't the idea of a warband that you functioned as a unit? Wasn't a certain measure of trust included in that?

He sighed and tapped his pencil on the page before adding: _“-Azalus one of few friends/contacts?” Contacts for what?_ He questioned the vagueness of that bullet point even as he scribbled it down in his cramped cursive.

With a small sigh, he closed the book again, grateful that their current mission concerning Flame Legion kept him from driving himself crazy over the issue with Cirellen.

***

Her only cooking student had been away for a week or two before he showed up again. She didn't make any remark about his deployment, and he didn't ask any questions about her personal life that session. She decided to not think too much about the silence, and be grateful that he didn't make her field his questions that day. It was a simple stir-fry of meat and vegetables she had planned to teach him: the meat juices flavored the vegetables and vice versa, with a few spices thrown in.

She had successfully pushed away any worry about his advice about hiding things in the past week, and in doing so ironically followed his advice: she was a little less tense. _If he knows anything, or suspects anything, I can't change it now._ He didn't do anything to startle or scare her, and she tried to be cordial, at least.

She could get used to that sort of cooking lesson with him. It was comfortable, somehow, like back when she was with the Renegades. Fill your role, and I won't ask questions if you don't. The only things of significance he said were at the end, as he picked up his dishes to leave with them to Hero's Canton. At least she assumed that was where he was going.

“I joined a new warband recently. Been working with them but now I'm officially a part of it. The name's Duskdancer now.” He grinned slightly crookedly. “I'll be away for a while again, though. A month or more, probably.”

She just nodded. His grin looked cub-like, strange in combination with the deadliness and air of secrecy, the “lone wolf” impression he seemed to exhibit otherwise. “Okay.”

He returned her nod and left. She relaxed slightly.

***

He had other things to occupy his mind during the mission in Dredgehaunt Cliffs. Combat, strategy, raids, getting enough to eat towards the end... He tried to cook a few times and it didn't turn out half-bad. At least the cooking lessons had helped somewhat. He generally mulled over the entire situation while cooking, since the activity reminded him of the petite figure standing over a grill in the Factorium. He could almost see her tail flicking back and forth if he tried, he'd watching it so often.

Try though he did, he didn't see Azalus much during the campaign. He didn't have anything against the guy, just never had much to talk with him about—except the one subject he didn't think he should breach. Besides, the guy's behavior had gotten better in the recent weeks. He wasn't sure if it was even worth investigating Cirellen because of Azalus any more—but he knew she had to have some secret, and he couldn't leave a secret alone before uncovered it. It wasn't his way. He'd delay it, tell the people involved he was willing to wait until they were ready to tell him, claim that it didn't concern him. But he'd find it out, one way or another: by edging himself into their confidence, forcing the issue, or finding out through different channels, circumventing those directly involved entirely. The issue with Cirellen was that he had no idea which other channels to go through. Burnpaw, maybe, but he got the impression the guy hired her without asking many questions once she'd proved she could cook better than ninety percent of the Citadel.

***

The casual comment from a customer early one morning began to take root in Cirellen's mind. A large, muscular female, very early one morning. Cirellen hadn't seen the female again, but the words stayed in her head. _“You could make good money with your own restaurant, in Lion's Arch for example.”_

Cirellen hated other races. Hated them with a passion. But the fact remained: it would be far safer for her than here. Lion's Arch was where all the vagabonds went to get lost; as long as you didn't cause too much trouble, nobody cared about you. At least that was what she had heard. It would work for her. Given that she was forced to put up with all manner of rabble, salads, imps, and worst of all the _mice_ camping out in Gladium's Canton, she figured she could do the same in Lion's Arch.

Or Hoelbrak. Hoelbrak might be good. She hadn't met a Norn really beyond the occasional traveler. They were a bit too talkative for her taste, but at least they didn't fall into the “rabble” category, and they probably liked a good meal and some hearty meats.

She hadn't had much of a use for the meager pay she received from the Factorium beyond a buying a sleeping mat and a few changes of clothes—she got free meals, good meals as an employee, but accordingly less pay—and now she had a reason to squirrel it away.

_Getting out of here._ It was a dream, but a dream she might be able to pull off.


	6. A Returning Visitor

He was loud the next time he showed up at the Factorium, his footpaws dragging on the ground so that she turned long before he had reached her. She wasn't sure whether or not it was on purpose or if he was just tired.

He looked tired, somehow. A little more gaunt than he'd been before, maybe, although he had been fairly wiry and thin to begin with. He greeted her with a faint smile. “Hail. And I don't want to have to look at a potato for at least a week.”

“Why's that?”

“Potato-peeling duty for the past few days.” He grimaced, and she nodded. She had never envied the scrappers who delivered the cleaned vegetables and cut meat to the kitchen with sullen faces. But then she had never complained when she'd been condemned to do that arduous task under Flame.

“Well, it's good that I didn't have anything with potatoes planned for today.”

He chuckled, but it sounded forced. After a moment, he straightened and crossed his arms. “So, what are we cooking today?”

“Sausages and curry.”

“What?” A frown marred his face.

“Curry. It's... a spice mixture I picked up from a Norn trader. The ingredients grow in Maguuma, pretty potent spices. Goes well with meats, actually.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It's taken a while to make its way up here. From what I heard a salad was the first to toss the stuff together and taste it.” She curled her lip. “Guess the twigs can be good for something.”

“Okay, so how does that go?”

“Turn the grill on and toss a few sausages on it. Then start with a tomato paste. You know where the pots are, sausages are hanging on the meat rack, and tomatoes are in the sack labeled as such. Go.”

“Learning by doing, eh?” He smirked.

“Best way.” Her face was deadpan, except for the corners of her mouth, which she had to fight to keep from slanting upwards. “What are you waiting for?”

***

He smiled slightly, the work in the kitchens strangely calming after the upheaval of the past few days—their return from Dredgehaunt with their tails between their legs, the new centurion, his promotion, Virion's new sullen and venomous aura. He began to see the appeal as he tossed the sausages on the heating grill and began to slice the tomatoes. It didn't require much thought—sort of like his daily runs through Ashford. Productive and calming.

Cirellen moved beside him, a metal bowl and pestle in hand. “Sliced tomatoes make the mashing easier, but you still have to grind them to a paste. Your choice whether you want to slice or not.” She picked the finished slices up from the end of the cutting board and began to mash them, with a slight circular flick of her wrist.

He glanced sideways at her every so often. She seemed to have relaxed around him somewhat. The spunk she had just displayed was nice to see. Her tone was neutral, and she didn't twitch. _That's new._

She tilted her head towards the grill. “Use your nose. The sausages need to be turned when they smell about half done—like now.”

Koreth sniffed a few times, trying to take in the scent during the journey of about ten steps to the grill. The tongs hung beside the grill, and it didn't take but a moment for him to turn the meat, the dark cooked strip now facing upwards.

It was only a hint of a whimper, but Koreth's ears flicked and he turned, his hackles rising. A large, black male Charr had a paw on Cirellen's upper arm. His long mane fell over his face, his head dipped as he seemed to murmur something into the female's right ears. Her left ones were flicking back and forth like dragonfly wings, though her tail was oddly still, like the rest of her.

Koreth frowned, barely, and then smoothed out his countenance, keeping his body language cool and collected and his pawsteps intentionally loud as he stepped back towards her. The other male looked up, his icy blue eyes boring into Koreth as he separated from the female. Koreth, for his part, sized up the other with a brief flick of his eyes._ Mid to late thirties. Midnight black, fur and mane, even tail. Long mane, dreadlocks. Blood uniform, carries sword, shield, what looks like a pistol holster on his right hip._

“Hey, mind waiting your turn? She's in the middle of my cooking lesson.” Koreth's tone was light and intentionally neutral. Cirellen turned her head towards Koreth, her eyes wide, panic flickering in them.

The other broke into a friendly smile. “Sure, mate. Cub, I'll meet you in the tavern after you're done with him.” He gave Cirellen a light pat on the arm. “We can catch up some, and I'll fill you in on how your mother's doing.”

“A-actually, Koreth here and m-me were going to have a few drinks a-afterwards. I-I already promised.”

***

Cirellen wasn't exactly relieved when Koreth nodded and smiled. It was the simply the feeling of there's-less-of-a-chance-I'll-be-killed-soon. Or maybe more the feeling of I've-delayed-my-death-an-hour-or-so.

So she didn't feel much besides numb when he offered, “Feel free to join us, though.”

She was relieved, however, when her sire shook his head. “No, it's all right. You two young ones enjoy yourselves. I'm around for a few days. We can catch up tomorrow or sometime. Your mother's fine, by the way. Still enjoys her job.”

Cirellen could feel her tail tip begin to twitch slightly as the paralysis began to subside. She stayed in the same spot, though, until Koreth cleared his throat. With a single nod, she turned back to the tomatoes.

It was only when she heard her sire's heavy footsteps receding that she took a deep breath and let it out. She'd never been so grateful for being able to cook on autopilot before as she reached for the ground garlic and pepper.

“G-give me the vinegar, please. And you don't need to cut up more tomatoes.”

He handed the bottle to her in silence.

“Ketchup is vinegar, tomatoes, garlic, pepper, and sugar. Basic recipe. Actually, here. Mix the stuff up until it tastes about right. I assume you've had the stuff before?”

“Serrated Blade does usually give you the option of ketchup or mayo with your fries.”

“Right.”

Her mind was blank, numb as she watched him, but she could feel her breathing steady. _Function._ It was a skill she had learned early, to push back the numbing fear, the thought of the impending pain, to focus on the task at hand. More imminent pain had always been the consequence if she didn't.

He glanced at her every so often, but she barely registered it. “This tastes about right.”

A slightly acrid smell began to reach her nose, and she practically leapt to the grill. “Damn! Damn damn damn...”

***

Koreth was at her side in a moment, though he wasn't quite sure what all the fuss was about. “They're not burnt. Just on the crispy side. Should be good.”

She shook her head and began taking the sausages off the grill. “Turn it off. They're not supposed to be crispy.” Her tone was high and taut, like she was about to snap at any moment.

_Whoever that was —her sire?— really shook her up. If he's undone all the work I've been doing trying to get her to relax, I just might be tempted to kill him. ...interesting that she volunteered to spend time with me instead, though._

“I'm sure they'll still be better than anything I could have done alone.” He kept his voice low, soothing, and neutral. “Besides, crispy meat should go well with alcohol. We really on for those drinks?”

“Drinks? What dri—oh. No, I mean, I--” She froze, staring at the wall, and he realized it had been the wrong thing to say.

“Look, you don't have to--” He began at the same time she started to speak as well.

“I'll go with you, I just don't drink alcohol. And don't expect me to talk.” She turned away from him, shivering slightly, and began to take dishes out of the cabinet, small but deep saucers.

The first dish fell from her paws, shattering on the metal floor. Her shivers intensified, but she put the other dish down on the counter and knelt to gather up the pieces, not seeming to notice the glass cutting into her paw as she picked it up.

He crouched down beside her, briefly touching a paw to hers. “Hey, relax. Go wash your paws, clean yourself up, and then finish—whatever needs to be done to finish the dish. I'll take care of this. Where's a dustpan?” His tone was no-nonsense, and more gentle than he had intended.

“Dustpan is by the grill.” Her voice was mechanic as she stood.

***

Cirellen looked at her palms, thin lines of blood starting to stain through her fur. It didn't hurt, but she knew she shouldn't get blood on the food.

The water was cool. The soap stung. Somewhere she knew that she shouldn't be beaten, not here. They didn't do that here. But that didn't matter—she still hunched her shoulders and braced herself for the blow. The heads of the kitchens had been sadistic bitches, enjoying lording what small power they had over the other females.

“Sausages in the dishes. Divide them up for two. Ketchup over, then sprinkle the curry. Not too much—it's spicy and expensive.” She mumbled more than anything, keeping her paws under the water and watching it flow pink into the drain.  
Her fur matted, and after a while—she wasn't sure how long—a gray paw reached out to turn the water off. His voice was soft. “The food is done. Best eat it while it's hot. Sit down at a table here. I'll go over to the tavern and grab a drink to bring back here. Anything you want?”

She shook her head. He reached out a paw, but she avoided it silently and plodded over to a table.

She didn't want company, but neither did she want to be alone. He set one plate down in front of her — the smell wafted up to her nostrils and made her mouth water in spite of herself — and the other at the place beside her before heading across the way.


	7. Dinner and a Drink

Koreth tapped his claws on his right leg as he waited at the bar. More pieces of the puzzle. More, but not quite enough. It felt like the answer was just out of his reach, and that irritated him. Just when he needed to be the least irritated.   
She was jumpy, panicked, almost like she was shutting down. Like a Blood cub after their first battle in the Brand. Shell-shock, he would have said, except she hadn't fought. Disbelief she was still alive, after staring in the face of death — except it was only a friendly soldier. _No, not friendly. I don't like him. But not hostile. Not just any soldier. Acted like her sire. My wariness is probably based on her reaction to him, though._

Shell-shock. Tap, tap, tap. He glanced idly around the bar, but didn't see the midnight-black Charr. His identity would give Koreth another clue to this puzzle.

_Pure luck for me he came by when he did._ The sound of a glass sliding over the counter interrupted his thoughts, and he responded with a short nod to the bartender and the clink of coins on the counter.

The mixture of whiskey diluted with raspberry juice—he wanted to stay on his toes—was cool in his paw, the ground equally cool beneath his footpaws as he made his way back towards the Factorium's restaurant and kitchens.

She was still seated at the table, and had apparently gotten forks and knives for both of them. A glass of water sat in front of her, but her food was untouched.

“Nice of you to wait for me.”

She simply nodded as he slid into the seat beside her, lifted her silverware, and began to slice one of the sausages. He copied her as she speared one of the slices and dipped it in the sauce.

“This is good.”

She didn't even look up. He wanted a reaction from her, to seize the moment he had, but the more cautious part of him kept him silent, sensing that making no move was a far better bet than taking a chance on whether or not he made the wrong move.

“I'm glad you finally decided to accept my invitation for dinner and a drink. Been a while since I asked.” He kept his tone light and teasing, as he would with any other female he was having a casual conversation with. “It was a bit cruel to leave me hanging for so long, but I still appreciate you doing me the honor of accepting.”

He hadn't expected a reply, so he was pleased when she did speak. “I refused. Back when you first asked me for lessons. And then it was just a drink.”

“You never said you wouldn't have dinner with me. Just that you didn't drink and I didn't have to hang out with you.”

“You never asked me for dinner. Just a drink.”

“Touché. You have a good memory.”

“Yours isn't bad, either.”

“Mine is part of my job.” He tilted his head and regarded her. “You never thought about becoming a spy?”

“No.” She glanced up and him and then back down, her shoulders hunched.

“Well, you'd probably make a bad agent anyways, the way you are. Your emotions are like an open book. Nervous tics—that flick of your ear is nervousness, right? And your body language practically screams fright even if you're not screaming.”

Aware he could have said too much, he eyed her carefully, his head tilted to the side, his paws open on the table, his body language carefully engineered to say, “I'm friendly.”

She looked up from her food, warily eyeing him back. He took her silence as a good sign.

“I told you before about your body language. I was just trying to help—but never mind. Moot point.”

He shrugged slightly and began to eat, continuing to observe her, but only with quick, surreptitious glances.

***

Cirellen laid her knife and fork down and closed her eyes. She had started to shake, but her thoughts were miraculously clear. _Would this all be easier if I just told him? It was nice to know... that Azalus knew, and that he still didn't..._

Didn't what? Turn her in? Kill her? She didn't know. Scratch that “clear thoughts” part. She wasn't thinking straight at all.

_I'm Flame._ The conviction, the identity was strong, for a reason she couldn't say. You can't change your pelt, they said, and this seemed much the same. _They'll kill me. I don't know why Azalus didn't. But they will._ Never mind who “they” were.

“So, who was that? Your sire? Why didn't you want to spend time with him? Nice of him to come by and check up on you, if he was. Most don't do that.”

She froze. She'd been an idiot to think he wouldn't ask. Actually, she hadn't thought at all. Functioning on instinct was a bad thing, as she learned again at the first thing that tumbled out of her mouth.

“He's not my sire.”

“Who is he then? He seemed to know you, and you him.”

She began to tremble. “He's—he knows my mother. I—saw him once or twice growing up.”

Koreth frowned. “Why are you scared of him?”

“He beat her. He's Flame.” She tensed, snapping her mouth shut to keep herself from blurting out anything else. Stuffing food in her mouth would also keep her from talking, and so she did that. The burst of heat on her tongue was a welcome distraction.

“So why don't you call the Adamant—” He narrowed his eyes.

She pushed down the fear and stuffed another chunk of sauce-drenched sausage into her mouth. It was strangely calming to assume the worst. Then you weren't surprised when it happened.

***

“You're Flame.” His voice was quiet. “Ran away.”

One nod was her answer. _Gotcha._ He nodded back and stood. “I'll see what I can do to take care of him.” This would be fun. Counter-infiltration.

“You didn't finish your food.”

“Right.” He turned and picked up the plate. “I'll bring this back. Got a name for me? Somewhere he might hang out in the Citadel?”

“You think he'll go by his real name here?”

He turned and scrutinized her—widened eyes, but no flick of the ears. Pretty little thing. Probably treated like crap for a long while—Flame officers seemed like the kind to go for the delicate, submissive type. He wondered how she made it out. _Prejudiced, but not an idiot. Naive, maybe. Terrorized. Strange, she seems more normal now than at first. Calm. I guess spilling secrets does that to some. She'd make a terrible spy._

“Do you? Go by your real name.”

“Yes.” Quiet, slightly hoarse.

“Maybe he does, too, then. Makes it easier when you only have one name to keep track of.”

“Yeah.” A pause, and then, “Virka. Searslice was the name he went by last time I was at the Citadel, but that was a few years ago.”

“Where were you before you came here, then?”

“Do you need to know?” _Apparently not ready to spill all her secrets._

“Not right now.”

“Then you don't get to know.”

He arched an eyebrow at that, stuffing another few slices of sausage into his mouth and swallowing. “And if I'd said yes?”

“I'd have asked why.”

He nodded as he scarfed down the last of the meal. “That was good. I'll have to remember it. Pretty simple recipe.”

She nodded back and took the plate. He spoke up again. “I'll take care of your—problem.” A Flame soldier, spy, whatever he was, spelled trouble for everyone if not eliminated. “Let me know if you recognize anyone else.”

“I saw him out in the ruins once. Only knew him today because he approached me. He's disguised himself.”

“That'll help. I'll start there.” He adjusted his coat and walked out, mulling over the situation. _One thing—why'd Azalus hang out with her if he hates Flame so much? Using her as a spy?And why'd her sire approach her here?Is she a double agent, precisely because she seems like she'd be an awful spy?_

A quick glance back at the petite Charr gave him no food for suspicion per se—but sometimes that was the most suspicious thing of all.


	8. A Death at Night

Cirellen swiped a paw over her muzzle and rubbed her bleary eyes. She had drawn the short straw today, and after Koreth had left, she had stayed on for several hours, mixing the dough and rolling the meat pastries that were going to be served for breakfast tomorrow morning.

It was almost one in the morning, and the lack of sleep coupled with the scare from earlier today meant she was practically dead on her footpaws.

So she didn't jump and she didn't scream when she felt a heavy paw on her shoulder, just turned her tired, sullen gaze to the offender. “Father.”

“Cub.” She could see the detestation in his eyes. “Twice lucky, but not a third time. Males seem to like you. Pity you've decided to turn traitor.”

“I'm not a traitor. I'm not fighting you, am I? I can't fight. You want to kill me, go ahead and do it.” _I'm tired of these games. Maybe it would be better to just die._ The Factorium was dark and deserted save for isolated crafters and the tavern—and the area was large enough that no one would hear her from where she stood in the back of the kitchens.

“I'm debating about how long I should make you suffer for.”

She closed her eyes and turned her back on him to place the strips of meat on the dough rolled out on the counter. “Let me know when you've decided.” She began to shake, violently, even before he hit her.

The force of his metal-clad paw propelled her forward, the edge of the counter digging into her stomach and forcing the air out of her, her head falling down to her chest. Her forearms made two large dents in the dough, and the raw meat stuck to her sleeves. _Ugh, there'll be cloth fibers and lint in the pastries now. At least I didn't knock over a lantern._

***

Koreth frowned, large strides eating up the metal ground of the Citadel. His paws had never been far from his daggers as he had searched all the likely places in the Citadel over the past several hours. The ruins, the bar, both Cantons, the Bane, even—all devoid of the certain red-uniformed, deep black Charr he was looking for.

_If I were Flame..._ He would take on the alias of a soldier he killed recently, take his uniform. Kill anyone who knew he wasn't the same Charr before they could rat him out. Keep on the move, so people couldn't find him. _Why would he go near a cub who defected to the other side? Shame, punishment. Probably makes it personal revenge. No other reason, especially for Flame and a girl._ So if he couldn't kill said cub immediately, with company around... _Why the comment about the mother? Mind games, most likely._ He'd try again. Soon.

_She sleeps in Gladium's Canton, doesn't she? If he knows anything at all, he knows merchants and gladium don't get a bunk in the soldiers' barracks._

It had been the second place he checked, after his sweep of the ruins. Neither she nor he hadn't been there then, but she was probably back now. _I'm not her bodyguard. But she would be good bait._

She wasn't there, though, despite the late hour. His hackles began to rise as he stared at the empty corner where he had last seen her camp out down here. _If she's dead, I lose my way to track her sire. Not to mention a clue to Azalus' issues._ He whirled around and made for the elevator again. _She'd better just be working late._

***  
Cirellen took one stumbling step back from the counter and doubled over, trying to suck air into her lungs.

“Pitiful.” He laughed, and it echoed in her head as he backhanded her left ears. _Strange._ They weren't twitching.

The situation was familiar to her, giving her a strange sense of security. She half-expected to see her mother any second, standing by with the rest of the workgroup with her sorrowful, encouraging gaze. A quick smile flit across Cirellen's face, and then she began to laugh. It came out a wheeze, really, because she still couldn't breathe properly again.

Maybe the unexpected reaction was what caused Virka to stop mid-swing and look at her again. “Brave, I'll hand that to you. Still pitiful. Don't know if I'd be prouder or more ashamed of you if were born a male.”

_If I had been a male I would have been taught how to fight and you'd be dead now._ Pistol. Still trying to gulp air, but feeling a little less weak, she grabbed for the pistol in its holster on her hip.

She barely managed to get it out before she felt her sire's metal gauntlet clamp down on her wrist.

“Were you going to threaten me? Can you even shoot that?” He was mocking her.

_Can't miss at this range. Join in the armor—there._ The explosion echoed around the kitchen, and she clamped her ears to her head at just how unexpectedly LOUD it was.

He roared. She didn't see blood. His paw slipped down to the pistol, pulled, tried to wrench it from her grasp. She was pulled with it, loathe to give up her grip on her only weapon. His sword—she hadn't been aware that he'd drawn it—sliced into her side.

With a small scream, she let go of the pistol and leapt away. Except it was the wrong way. She crashed into a grill—shoulder first, then head—with a grunt.

_That hurts._ She slumped to the ground, but here eyes stayed glued to her sire and his sword.

The light from the lanterns she had been working by glinted off the blade. _It's kind of pretty._

“Hey! Virka!” A male voice. She turned her head towards the entrance, but no one stood there.

***

The black Charr frowned, staring out towards the Factorium with twitching ears, but Koreth knew his trick would only buy him a fraction of a second—he would be grateful if it bought him that much. Poisoned it would be, then. Left side. Fast.

His paws made a dull _thump_ on the ground as he leapt at the larger male. His quick stealth spell wore off just as he buried the blade in the junction between the shoulderplates and torso armor.

The other roared again, stumbling from the impact even as he swung the sword in his right paw in an arc toward his would-be assassin. Leaving the dagger where it was, Koreth retreated a few steps, drawing another blade as he did so.  
Virka looked to want to follow, and took a step, then a grimace tore across the other Charr's muzzle as his left leg gave out at the hip.

“Damn you!” It was a primal, feral growl, and then no more sound came from his mouth even though it continued to move. Both pistol and sword clattered to the ground, and they were followed by a metal gauntlet within a second

The paw underneath was mangled, burnt, and an angry orange color—but he flexed it just fine, making strange signs with it. Koreth's gut twisted, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. He gripped a dirk. Chest height, another leap — the other turned in just that moment, the blade slipped off plate metal, and the heat from a fireball seared his face, the light momentarily blinding him. Koreth had no idea as to its target, only grateful he wasn't it.

A second stab, the side of the head this time, between the left ears. A _crunch_ he'd only heard a few times before, and the other's head lolled to the side. The mangled paw continued to flex, though, a small ball of magma forming.

In the corner of his eyes, he saw Cirellen rise from her slumped position, one paw holding a blood-soaked side, and grab the pistol from the floor. A misfire, the bullet burying itself harmlessly in the floor, and then blood spurted from Virka's wrist, and his movement ceased.

_Sad loss of possible intelligence. _Koreth glanced at the paw, then up at Cirellen. _She'd better make up for it._

Shots continued to ring out as the female directed bullet after bullet into the body, until the empty gun clicked in complaint. Then she tossed it to the side, and fell to her knees again, clutching both paws to the bloody spot now.

He handed her a wad from his small pouch of emergency medical supplies. “Press that to it. I'll get a medic.” She didn't respond, just stared at the body turning gray and then stark white. _Mesmer disguise. Albino. Interesting._

With a sigh, he pressed the gauze into her paw, arranged her paws over the spot—he wasn't sure exactly where the wound was, as blood had spread out into her clothes—and sprinted to the tavern.


	9. Immediate Aftermath

“Is there a _medic_ in here?” Koreth raised his voice to be heard above the din. Weekends in the Serrated Blade were always loud. Several heads turned, but nobody raised a paw.

“You'll find one at the emergency station in the Core.” The barkeep shrugged nonchalantly.

Koreth refrained from grinding his teeth. He knew that, but the tavern was closer, worth a shot. He moved to the back of the tavern, raising his voice a bit more this time. “I need a _medic_!”

“You don't look like you need a cure for anything besides maybe a hangover and delusions.” A medium-sized female, brown with blond stripes, blocked his path with a whiskey in her paw. Koreth's eyes flicked to her pauldrons, which clearly displayed the field medics' symbol, and back to her muzzle, which was a little closer to his than he'd have preferred.

“A friend of mine. Factorium kitchens. Lost some blood. If you're a medic, _go_!” He pointed towards the door as he turned to head out himself. “I'll grab an actual, more qualified healer from the 24-hour station in the meantime.”

She bristled at that, shaking her head. He just barely avoided being hit by one of the metal rings dangling from her messy braids. “I'm plenty qualified, asshat. I just don't appreciate being called when I'm off-duty if it's not needed. Hey, Gallowknot! Look after my whiskey for me while I see what this guy needs!” She slid the drink onto the bar to a mock salute from the bartender, and shouldered her way past Koreth out the door.

_She's probably half-drunk, but I hope better than nothing._ “You got bandages with you or something? I gave her a wad of gauze to stem the bleeding but I don't have a bandage proper.”

She snorted and reached for the metal focus hanging on her belt, waving it over her shoulder in his face. “Don't need 'em. And I got some antivenins and a coupla other things in my pouch. Now where's your friend?”

“Back in the kitchens. Got a corpse next to her, so not all the blood is hers. Don't loot it, Ash wants a look at that guy.”

“Don't worry, I just wanna get back to the good time I was having before you so rudely interrupted me.”

“You make me wonder why you ever decided to become a medic.” He turned off to head to the Core, where the 24-hour emergency medic's station was situated, but his ears just caught her response.

“Yeah, sometimes I do too.”

***  
Cirellen blinked, and sat back. _I've only ever seen him undisguised once before. Before now, that is._ The dissipating spell tickled her magical senses. _I apparently got it from him._

The irony forced a laugh out of her, and then she winced. Trying to stand, she settled for hunched-over, hastily putting some distance between herself and the corpse of her sire before kneeling on the ground again.

She tried to pull her shirt up, but the blood had partially dried and the clothing stuck. For now, she settled on pressing the gauze where it hurt and hoping Koreth found a medic. The irony of relying on him now after her previous wariness wasn't lost on her, either.

Pawsteps outside made her tense, and a medium-sized, darker female walked in. She was fashionably dressed, in a top made up of straps that barely covered anything, and a medium-length leather skirt. Metal rings in her braids clinked together, a displeasing cacophony to match her frown.

Cirellen flattened her ears to her head. The other female went to look at her sire first, holding a paw to his neck. “Right, no pulse, he's dead, so I'm guessing you need medical help?”

Cirellen nodded. “Side.”

“Show me what you've got. I'm going to guess that's blood. Any other serious injuries?” The tone was brisk and to-the-point. She wouldn't ask unnecessary questions, which Cirellen was grateful for.

She shook her head, her voice quiet. “A few bruises, maybe. Nothing serious.”

“All right.” The larger female moved to the sink, rinsing off her paws and then wetting one of the cloths. “The name's Ayravi Strongshield. Wanna show me what — I assume the guy lying on the floor? — gave you?”

Wincing, Cirellen started to pull it up. The cloth tore from the matted fur stickily. The absence of the blue tunic revealed a decent slice that had been made into her left side, now with fresh blood flowing out of it.

Ayravi knelt beside the smaller female and cleaned around the wound, with firm yet gentle strokes. “New blood will make sure the wound is clean. I need to feel, see if there is any major internal damage. Necessitates bodily contact. Just a paw on your stomach.”

Cirellen nodded, and the other carefully placed a paw on her stomach and closed her eyes. Ayravi's other paw gripped a focus that slowly began to grow blue. It was standard-issue, nothing unique, but it captured Cirellen's attention. _Pretty and magically charged._ She smiled, and looked at the darker female with something akin to adoration, or even idol-worship in her eyes.

Ayravi didn't seem to notice, though, as she opened her eyes. “Good news. Seems like you got lucky, no major damage to any vital organs. I need you to hold still for me, and I'll mend everything now. Might tickle a little.”

She moved her paw to place it gently over the wound, and Cirellen's flesh began to glow a soft blue as well. It did tickle, but she tried not to giggle.

***

Koreth walked in to find Cirellen glowing blue. It was a good color on her. _Magic healer. Don't see many of those around._ He cleared his throat, and Cirellen turned to look at him, a smile on her face. “The actual medic is here now. You can go back to your whiskey.”

The pawsteps of the medic who had followed him from the emergency station stopped in the doorway. “Ah, actually looks like you don't need me.”

The dark-furred female didn't turn or look up. “Shut up for a moment.”

Koreth counted five seconds before she removed her paw from Cirellen's side and sat back. “You good?” Her voice was soft, a little motherly as she addressed her patient.

“Yes, thank you.” The petite female positively beamed at the larger one.

“All right then.” The darker female returned the smile and stood, turning towards the entrance. “We're done here, actually, Kelvin. She just had the slice in her side and he's dead.” She jerked her head towards the corpse on the floor. “Sorry you had to come down here for nothing.”

The station medic — Kelvin, apparently — nodded. “Pretty standard, then?”

“Lost some blood, but it looked worse than it was. Just nicked a few things, no major damage I couldn't fix.”

“There's a hell of a lot of stuff you can fix that I can't, at least not in that amount of time.” Kelvin seemed to have a fair amount of respect for the female.

“Anyone can learn it.” She brushed an errant braid—or dreadlock, he wasn't quite sure which—behind her ears.

“Yeah, just not with your talent.”

She chuckled. “You can save the flattery for when you buy me a drink, if you decide to properly hit on me.” A quick wink followed, and the station medic ducked his head. _He likes her, but doesn't trust himself to make a move._ And the female medic was certainly an _interesting_ character.

Koreth, his expression impassive, broke into their banter. “So she's okay? Nothing left for you guys to do?”

Kelvin looked to the female medic, who nodded. “Nope, not that I can see. I do know that I won't be eating breakfast here tomorrow, though.” She shot a grimace towards the direction of the floor and the unfinished (now mangled and most likely somewhat bloodied) meat-pastries on the counter.

The comment seemed to spur Cirellen into action, and she leapt to her feet. “Damn, no! Uh, that batch will be thrown away. The others on the rack are perfectly fine—” Koreth's eyes followed her claw and landed on the floor-to-ceiling baking preparation rack on the opposite side of the kitchen, where indeed many untouched baking sheets were filled with the pastries. “—and, uh, your breakfast would be my treat tomorrow. Or, I mean, if you really don't want breakfast, a lunch or dinner or any other meal. A-as a thank you. For helping me.”

“It's my job.” The medic shrugged. “But I appreciate the gesture. I won't say no.” She smiled at Cirellen, who smiled back, and something seemed to pass between the pair.

Koreth eyed them both with interest for a moment before speaking. “Can I get a name? For my report?” Mention of the document made him contemplate precisely how much truth would go in, and then he curbed any thought of writing down anything less than the full truth.

“Ayravi Strongshield. Field medic of the 85th Blood Regiment, officially under Legionnaire Viator Strongaxe. I'm done here, I think, so I'll get back to that whiskey Gallowknot had better have kept for me.” She turned and left, her braids clinking together like an out-of-tune windchime. Kelvin saluted and followed, his medic's case hitting his right leg as he walked.

***

Cirellen sighed as she grabbed the batch of meat pastries and wadded it up into a large, unwieldy bundle that tried to escape from her paws to the freedom of the bloody ground as she made her way to the food waste container.

She found herself strangely clear-headed. She was not sorry—she would have shot her sire more if she had had more bullets—and even the sight of the corpse didn't bother her much. Still on the ground like that, he couldn't hurt her. Ever again. Or tell anyone where she was. So all she felt was relief.

Koreth was kneeling beside the corpse now, rifling through the pouch on the belt. He withdrew a Flame amulet, examined it, and pocketed it. The coins he took as well, and then he began to remove the armor.

She ignored him as she washed her paws in the sink, and washed the baking sheet just to be on the safe side, before she rolled out another batch of dough.

“I guess you shot him in the hip?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

He went back to looking over the corpse. It was naked by now, the Blood Legion armor and weapons neatly laid out a short ways away. The white fur was now spotted with dried brown blood and bullet wounds, as its ice-blue eyes stared at nothing. Only the right paw had the look of a magma glove. _Flame sorcery._ And she turned and began laying out the meat strips in the dough.

She ignored the _clank_ of the metal armor — he was probably gathering it up — and the sound of his pawsteps leaving, and his pawsteps returning, and his quiet grunt and the singular sound of a body smacking against leather. She hadn't heard it before, and she doubted she'd hear it again, and she cut up the dough in small squares around the meat.

“I'll mop up the blood, if you'll tell me where the cleaning supplies are.” It was late, and he sounded tired.

“I can do it. The mess isn't your fault.”

He snorted. “Hey, without you we'd have a Goldie running around the place. Now we don't. You did us a favor.”

“You saved my life.”

She heard him sigh. “Just doing my job killing Flame scum.” She unconsciously hunched and cowered away from him. _Flame scum. Am I next? He saved me—no, maybe he just wanted to kill my sire first because he can fight, and now he can kill me at his leisure. _“Back closet, next to the rack with the clean dishtowels. You can do Burnpaw the favor of mopping up his kitchen after you've ridden it of two bits of '_Flame scum'_. Why'd you get a medic?”

***

Koreth arched an eyebrow and narrowed his eyes beneath his hood. “You consider yourself Flame?”

“I'm certainly not Ash or Iron or Blood. What else would I be?”

“Do you work for Flame?” A meaningless question, really, because a “no” couldn't be trusted.

“No.”

“Do you hold some sort of connection to the Flame Legion? Are you feeding them information of any sort?”

“No. You think Flame actually treats females like they're worth anything other than servants?” She rolled meat pastries as if tired of life, as if the only thing that really mattered was getting these ready for breakfast. And she edged away from him.

“Isn't a soldier just a servant who fights? I know how Flame treats females. I'm thinking maybe one or two have wised up, could have sent you here undercover, and no one would suspect it because everyone knows how Flame treats females.” It was far-fetched, and he said it mostly to see her reaction. _Doesn't mean it's not a possibility._ He couldn't believe any female would willingly identify herself with the Flame Legion as he knew it.

She slumped, leaning heavily on her paws on the edge of the counter. “If you think I'm a Flame spy, just kill me already.”

“I'm not sure. And I don't like to kill innocents. Or possible sources of information. By the way, know anything about that molten rock paw of his?”

“No.” Something seemed to snap inside her, and she turned and pulled her tunic down and away from her neck to reveal the front of her shoulder, where a white, furless scar in the shape of an “M” drew his eyes. Her blue gaze was wild, uncontrolled, pained, and feral. “See this? They gave me this when they found me watching in on the fahrars' magic training and trying to learn something! I can show you the scars on my back, too!” She pulled the tunic off and flung it to the floor.

She was skinny, and small, and not much to look at as far as females went—the delicate sort wasn't his type. But he couldn't help smirking that he had a half-naked female in front of him. He though he spotted a faint pink tinge beneath her light fur, but the light from the lanterns was too dim to really tell. She crossed her arms and turned. Her back had indeed been heavily abused: stripes—from a whip, most likely—crisscrossed her back like a macabre tic-tac-toe board, and here and there larger furless spots glared at him even in the low golden light.

There was something in her voice that was either pain, or tears, or insanity. He wasn't sure which. “You seriously think I'm on the side of the fuckers who did this to me? Who just tried to kill me?” The curse word rolled off her tongue with relish, and her voice nearly squeaked at the end with agitation.

***

“Put your shirt back on. Or don't, I don't care.” His tone was coarse. _Does he not care about what happened to me?_ She had never wanted anyone to care, or rather had accepted that it would never happen. No one ever cared if she was hurt. Most tried to hurt her. But she felt some stab of disappointment. Maybe it was because she thought her scars would finally be good for something, and they weren't. Or maybe she was just losing it. She wondered sometimes.

Her voice was not particularly steady. “So, are you going to kill me now?” She felt wrung-out, like she'd had about as much pain and panic and threats as she could stand. Shaking, she knelt to retrieve her tunic from the floor, and slowly pulled it over her head.

His voice was muffled from inside the closet with cleaning supplies. “No.” He emerged with a mop and a bucket. “I figure whatever you are, you're not enough of a threat to be eliminated at the moment. I'll be re-evaluating that, though.” Stated matter-of-factly, as he went to the sink to fill the bucket.

She felt the need to wash her paws again, but he was at the nearest sink, so she went to the one across the room. He didn't comment on it.

She didn't stop shaking as she finished rolling the pastries while he mopped the floor. As she put the last baking sheet into the rack—the empty spot from the batch that had been messed up unnerved her, but this was the one concession she'd allow herself, not making a new batch of dough just for the one baking sheet—he dumped out the reddish-brown water and put the mop and bucket back in the closet.

He left without a word. _He's not going to leave me alone._ The thought was sobering as she snuffed the lanterns.

The mixture of wariness and paranoia and shock still coursing through her veins coupled with her exhaustion made for immediate, fretful sleep filled with nightmares. Her neighbors in the Gladiums' Canton moved further away after an hour or two, shooting her murderous glares that featured on antagonists' faces in her later dreams.


	10. Guilt and Blame

After killing the Charr whom he'd formerly taken orders from, Koreth was in no mood to deal with the Flame girl and her problems—problems which had already mostly taken care of for her. He idly wondered when she'd become “the Flame girl” instead of “Cirellen”, and he knew he wouldn't look at her the same, knowing where she came from. Instead of where he had assumed she came from.

Something told him it wasn't a good development, but he had other things to do than psychoanalyze himself. Being legionnaire was far from easy. The paperwork annoyed him, although he recognized its importance. He had four warband members to look after, one whom he barely saw and two who were far too bent on doing their own thing to take orders that didn't align with their own goals. And then Sonia was the newbie he'd picked up in the Gladiums' Canton, untried and untested.

He wouldn't be a bully like Virion had been, though, ruling with an iron fist. Loyalty earned, given by choice, was better than obedience through fear. He had never cared what others thought of him — he had had to learn this early on — but warband came first. So he would try to be the sort of legionnaire who inspired confidence and loyalty, at least in front of his warbandmates—his soldiers now.

They had word that Burn warband — the Flame warband who murdered Azalus' previous band, the Flame he was so eager to avenge himself upon he had been undertaking solo suicide missions — was in the Iron Marches, so there Dusk went.

They only had two males besides him — Flame's misogyny meant sending in a female was out of the question — and Azalus convinced Koreth to let him go in, despite Koreth's misgivings. In the meantime, the warband would be stationed in a nearby fishing town, planning an ambush on Burn and brewing large batches of poison for Azalus to distribute liberally in Flame food and water supplies.

Though a warband member was constantly stationed in the meeting place, waiting for word, the awaited meeting never came. Weeks passed, and Koreth got that sinking feeling in his gut. MIA. He didn't want to accept it — didn't want to give up on his troubled, volatile bandmate whom he should have kept away from Flame until the time was right — but Chandra was right. Another random newcomer into the Flame camp was too dangerous, especially if they had discovered Azalus was an imposter. Ghost — who really could have been a ghost for all Koreth saw of him — had since decided he had better things to do and had officially left the warband. More like official desertion. But Koreth didn't have time to chase a single Charr whom he'd rather not have as a subordinate.

Another week they waited, and then new orders came from the Citadel. Re-stationing for further training, back to the Black Citadel with the rest of the Shattersteel Detachment.

Within the course of three months, he had the deaths of two bandmates on his head. Less than a stellar start for a new legionnaire.

***

Slowly, Cirellen found herself relaxing. She still had nightmares, but she smiled a bit more. She didn't know whether or not her sire had told any other Flame spies in the Citadel about her, but even if he had, she couldn't do anything about it.

Her loaded pistol stayed by her side, though, and Burnpaw didn't say anything about it, though she had arched an eyebrow at Cirellen the morning after the incident, when the charred mark from where a fireball had hit the ceiling was painfully apparent. At least there had been no real damage.

She wished she were better with a sword — Azalus had started to teach her, but hadn't finished — but she wasn't, and she knew anyone with any kind of weapon they were used to using would be easily outperform her meager swordplay skills.

She hadn't seen Azalus in a while. A visit to Hero's Canton had gotten her nowhere — there were too many random soldiers bunked there who _didn't_ know him, and she seemed to never stumble upon one who did — besides that one time, where the soldier in question knew him but not where to find him. She missed having a confidante and trainer — friend, even, though the thought was strange to her — but if he didn't contact her, she didn't seem to be able to contact him, and she decided to leave well enough alone.

It had been a few weeks since she'd seen Koreth, either, which had also come as a surprise. After she had revealed she came from Flame, she'd expected— dreaded — that he would be all over her, drilling her about whether or not she knew people — she didn't — wanting information about the state of their knowledge about the Citadel — which she didn't know either — and pressing her for a peek into the inner workings of his enemy — nothing she'd been privileged to.

His absence also contributed to her feeling more at ease. Perhaps she had been wrong, and he wouldn't want anything more to do with her.

Those hopes were dashed when he showed up again at the Factorium a month or two later.

“Hail.”

She turned, and her eyes widened as he pushed his hood back to reveal a frown. His other paw was on a particularly large blade on his belt.  
“Um, hail. I-I haven't prepared anything, just give me a moment--”

“I'm not here for food.” He cut her off brusquely. “What does the name Azalus Duskblade mean to you?”

She blinked several times, his abrupt, forward—pushy, really, an adjective she hadn't associated with him before—manner throwing her off-kilter. “A—I—he was a friend.”

“'Friend'?” His tone put quotation marks around the word, though his claws were still. ”Then I hope you're _very_ sad to hear he's gone MIA.”

“MIA? Missing in action?” She blinked again, several times, and bowed her head. “I am sorry to hear that.” She meant the words. She owed her escape and new life to him. She hadn't spent much time with him, and she rarely cried — crying, or mewling, or anything of the sort had just merited extra lashes in the Flame Citadel kitchens — but he had become someone she cared about.

“Are you?” His teeth were clenched. “You don't seem very sorry.”

She turned, her own teeth bared. “Thank you for telling me. Now do you want me to break down and cry my soul out in the middle of my job?!”

He stepped closer to her. He wasn't very tall, but she was even smaller than he was, and he glared down at her. Her hackles rose, but she refused to back down, despite the fact that her muzzle was almost touching his. “If I find out you had _any_ hand in it — any smidgen of evidence that suggests that — I will hunt you to the ends of Tyria if I have to.”

“Why would you think I had anything to do with it?” She was truly perplexed, but her tone held a note of growl to match his own. Call it an automatic response.

“The fact that he went missing while undercover in a Flame camp. The fact that your sire obviously knew where to find you, and yet you were in the Citadel for months before that night unaccosted. The fact that Azalus hates Flame with a passion, that you call yourself his friend and yet you identify as one. The fact that you're more preoccupied with growling at me than with being shocked, or showing any kind of burning sadness because he's probably dead or a prisoner — and I don't know which is worse.”

“Why the hell do you even care?”

“He was my bandmate. Under my care.”

“Under your care? What the hell does that mean?”

“I'm his legionnaire.” His stare continued to bore into her.

“What—” She narrowed her eyes and stared at him. “All right. Legionnaire of Dusk, sir, feel free to look around all you want, because I'm sure you won't believe me even though I tell you I _did_ care about him and that I _am_ sorry to hear he's gone missing.”

“What the hell were you doing with him? Did he know you were—” His voice had been rising, and he lowered it in time, though his tone remained no less crass, accusatory, and menacing. “—Flame? Were you fucking? Because I sure as hell can't think of any other reason why a guy who hates Flame so much he'll risk his own life to try to kill one of the fuckers, why he would willingly spend time around a girl who still calls herself one.”

She began to see red at “fucking”, and unsheathed her claws. She couldn't remember consciously intending to swipe at his face, but he raised a paw to grab hers, and her claws still grazed his nose. “I am not 'fucking' him. I never did. Maybe it never occurred to you that he might actually just like my company, especially with an asshole like you around.” _Suicidal. That's what you are. He's not just a grunt soldier, though that would be bad enough. He's got authority._ But she'd had enough of his suspicion and veiled threats. He was no better than her sire in that respect, hovering and menacing and keeping her in suspense, frightened and jumping at shadows.

“Moody bitch like you? I doubt it.” He kept her paw in his grip, and turned it to examine her still unsheathed claws, his own claws uncomfortable but not pricking against her skin. “Then again, maybe he likes scratching.”

_Fucking asshole._

***

Koreth took a step back and released her paw, eyeing the female as she tried to take another swipe at him. His nose throbbed slightly. Her outline looked a little blurry for a moment, and then cleared up, leaving him slightly confused.

He shook his head to clear it, then eyed her again. If anything she had done had contributed to Azalus' disappearance in the Flame camp, he would make sure he was avenged. He didn't have evidence, though. He normally prided himself on his cautiousness and objective consideration of all possible angles. Somewhere he knew he was pushing the line here, acting just as Virion did in Ebonhawke, cocksure and violent—but he wasn't. He wasn't hammering a stake up anyone's tail. And it was all an act, to get a reaction from her. He just wanted to make sure she didn't have anything to do with Azalus' disappearance.

“I'm not surprised he went missing. Probably saw it as his opportunity to run away from you.”

Koreth laughed. She really didn't know the guy, not really. “No, more like he probably couldn't contain himself once he got into the camp and started a murdering spree. Or tried, and got his tail caught.”

“And that was your master plan in the camp? What did you do, send him in alone?”

“Undercover.”

“If you thought he would do that?” He pushed away that bit of him that whispered, _she's right. You know it's your fault._ He had always refused to regret his decisions, and didn't plan to change. Guilt meant he should regret something.

“He wanted to.”

She stared at him, with blatant animosity, but at least she wasn't trying to claw his muzzle off anymore. “Only way I could've had anything to do with it is if anyone recognized him with me here in the Citadel. Like my sire.”

“He met your— Virka?” _I certainly didn't hear about that. Was he using her for intel? Intel he didn't tell me about? I doubt he'd have told Virion, either._

“Once. He probably would've killed me if Azalus hadn't been there.”

“You seem to have a hell of a lot of luck. Guys around protecting you from other murderous guys.” He smirked. “But I'm guessing that since I saw Virka attacking you, he actually did want to kill you. Maybe you are telling the truth.”

***

“Damn right I am!” She was angrier than she could remember being in a while.

He smiled—smiled, after all he had accused her of. “If he did save you, I'd like to think you wouldn't turn him in.” He leaned down, his muzzle by her ears, and murmured, “Good thing there aren't any others you could sic on me.”

“I honestly doubt my sire was the only Flame here in the Citadel.”

His features hardened at once. “Then I suggest you tell me who they are.”

“I don't know!” With dismay, it flashed across her mind: _I've played into his paws. He'll never believe me now._ “It's just common sense! You don't have just one spy in the Flame Citadel, do you? If you are, you're an idiot.”

He just tilted his head and arched an eyebrow at her, without a word.

“As if they'd come help me! They probably blame me for killing him! If anything, they'd want to kill me, too.” It was true, and she fought to quell the cold panic. There had been that one male she was sure she'd never seen before who still knew her name...

“Probably.” He shrugged. “Let me know if any of them show up.”

Suddenly he was so nonchalant? She took a step towards him. “You know damn well I won't be around to tell you!”

“No, I don't. You've got a weapon. You shot someone.” He shrugged again. “I'd give you about a fifty-fifty chance.”

“Like you gave Azalus?” It was an impulse. She knew, for the tenth time within a few minutes, that the words coming out of her muzzle were unwise. “You said you knew he'd get himself caught!”

“No.” His pale green eyes blazed. “I never said that.”

“Then what the hell did you say? 'Yes, Azalus, of course you may go into the camp full of your enemies alone, even though I think you'll probably bring a shitstorm down on your head'?”

His tone was mocking as he spit the words through bared teeth. “Yes, of course that's what I said. You're trying to make all this my fault. You want to know what I said? 'Yes, Azalus, go ahead, because if you take care of this personally, maybe you won't go wandering off alone on suicide missions into any other Flame camps, and I won't have to worry every time I don't see you for a day that you're bleeding out alone who-knows-where, or being burned alive.'” His breathing was heavy, his tail thrashing back and forth as he took a step away. His tone was cold when he spoke again. “At least that's not any of my concern now.”

She stared at he back as he turned and stalked out of the Factorium, her muzzle hanging slightly open. _I can't believe him. Azalus deserved a better legionnaire._

After a moment, she heard a distinct “ah-hem!” and turned to find Burnpaw staring at her with one eyebrow arched and her arms crossed. Cirellen went back to work, resentment for her friend's fate still burning hot. Resentment against his idiot legionnaire, too.


	11. To Reconcile, In a Way

Koreth swore and hit the desk. The letter — note really, a small piece of paper that had been scribbled on seemingly as an afterthought — slide slightly on the smooth wood surface. He didn't look at it. There were few enough words, and he'd read them twice.

Chandra was leaving. His warband was dissolving in front of him. She hadn't even deemed it necessary to speak to him personally. Didn't say if she would be back.

Desertion. He'd seen it coming, felt it in his gut, knew she wasn't happy in the warband — wasn't satisfied with taking orders, really — but the reality still hit him hard.

The other female who'd left him weighed on him more and more lately. The thought of Vera always brightened his mood, though somehow less and less so in the months since he had seen her. Since leaving Shadow she'd become more and more of an idea, somehow less immediately real.

Well, he'd certainly try to fix that. Lion's Arch was notorious for allowing people to disappear, but he had a few favors he could pull.

The Order of Whispers was tight-lipped, but the mercenary guilds weren't. She wasn't to be found during that trip, though, and duty called, so he returned back to the Citadel. A day later the city was destroyed.

He was pissed — not worried, definitely angry — all morning after he read the news report, and it was in that frame of mind that he made his way down to the Factorium with the vague idea of checking up on the Flame girl. Make sure she hadn't killed anyone or run in the meantime.

He didn't see her anywhere when he first entered the Factorium kitchens, so Burnpaw was helpful as usual.

“Hail. Sorry to interrupt, but does Cirellen have the day off today?”

“No, she quit about a week ago.” Said with a sneer.

“What? Why?”

“Beats me. She didn't say, I didn't ask. I accepted her resignation, found another cook, did my job again without the pesky administration shit. Now quit bothering me.”

“Yes, ma'am.” His voice dripped with sarcasm, but he retreated from the head cook's formidable glower. _Right. Time to figure out what that girl is up to._

***

Cirellen had never been a fan of alcohol. It made her unable to help her friends — she burned with shame at the memory of the one time she had drunk the stuff, and then burned Azalus and couldn't stitch up a simple wound. It made usually decent soldiers into loudmouths, nuisances, and lechers. It made some spill stories not meant for anyone's ears, stories that made her want to shoot them on the spot. So the irony was not lost on her that her primary activity at the moment was preparing and dispensing alcoholic drinks.

The notice tacked to the door of the Serrated Blade had actually said “Cook wanted!” but more people wanted drinks than food. She was happy when someone did order food, and she could escape outside to the grills, and hopefully seduce more customers with the scent of the steaks. And she was disappointed when she had to carry the plates back in to the loud room that didn't even try to shake the scent of alcohol and sweat and rust.

But it paid better than the Factorium kitchens, a little better, plus tips—not that she got many—and she wouldn't have to remember that one night whenever she caught an infrequent glimpse of the charred dent in the ceiling. Burnpaw hadn't been happy about the result of that fireball, and Cirellen had had a hard time explaining. Her boss had never looked at her quite the same afterwards.

She just wanted to be able to live. Did it have to be so hard?

“Do you happen to have apple juice?” The voice was soft, high, like an tinkling brook. It annoyed her, and she flicked her ears involuntary. “Sure, twig. Here.” The bottle was right by the counter, and she wanted to get as far as possible away from this unnatural thing as soon as she could. The glass was slid across the counter. “Twelve copper.” She had debated overcharging it—naive thing probably wouldn't have noticed—but she'd already broken her boss' “no racial slurs” rule and didn't want to push it.

“Thank you!” The Sylvari was still overly perky and gave Cirellen a smile before sipping her drink. Cirellen's response was a scowl.

Her next customer was a familiar face, and one she'd dared to hope she wouldn't see again.

“Why'd you stop working under Burnpaw?”

Her tone was icy. “Can I get you anything, sir?”

“Yes, that would be great. I'd like a Blackroot cider and a side of Moa meat with whatever you think would be best on it.”

Popping off the top of the beer was automatic, and Koreth met her eyes as he took it. “You'd imagine you'd done this before.”

She nodded once to Keisha, her fellow bartender this evening, and went out towards the grills. He followed her — she had hoped he wouldn't.

“I have done it before.” It slipped out. “You think this Citadel is the only one with a bar?”

“I see.”

She was simultaneously grateful for the opportunity to escape the tavern for a few moments and irritated that he still existed.

“Am I still that interesting to you?”

“Bar is a good place to gather intelligence. Everyone talks about everything. Alcohol lets stuff slip out.”

“You're still on your 'I'm a spy' trip?” She glared at him as she turned on the grill, fitting the cover and opening the vent.

“Why do you care?”

She turned, and he gave a small shrug.

“If you're not, you shouldn't have anything to worry about. If you are, you should know that the most desirable answer can't be trusted.”

“What?”

He sighed, and enunciated his words. “If you were a spy, knowing that I am one as well—at least I've said I am, and I'd have no reason to lie there—you would also know I know you want me to not think you're a spy, whether you are one or not. If I say 'no, I don't think you're a spy', then you can't trust that, because I could just be trying to give you a false sense of security...”

Her head spun, but she growled at his tone. “I'm not a cub. You don't have to talk to me like that.”

“...because I'm a spy and I play mind games like that,” he finished smoothly, a smug grin on his face. She hated that grin—somehow pleasant and threatening at the same time and it threw her a little off-kilter.

“You're messed up.” She closed her eyes and cringed. _Get a grip on your mouth, girl. Just because there isn't a taskmaster with a whip doesn't mean you can do and say whatever you want. You don't want to lose this job._

“You're such a polite bartender — pardon me, cook. Giving out insults for free.” His tone was light, but sharp. “Shall I suggest an honor fight in the Bane? Or simply commend you to your boss?”

_Because killing me wouldn't be as bad._ She bared her teeth, but swallowed, closing her eyes as she tossed a moa slab on the grill. “I'm sorry. Please don't say anything to my boss.”

She opened them again to find that the meat had landed right where she wanted it on the grill, and was momentarily pleased with herself before turning to Koreth, trying to gauge his reaction to her apology.

“Don't poison my food.” He eyed her for a moment with a rather unreadable expression before heading back inside.

***

She was no fun, really. He almost preferred her snapping to the cowed little thing he had in front of him now. Not that he liked her when she was shouting, either. She had a most unpleasant screech sometimes.

He played with the bottle, spinning it on the bar. His ears flicked under his hood as he caught snatches of the conversations around him.

“...Centurion has us marching out to the Fields of Ruin tomorrow. Said something about 'inter-cultural communication' or some other shi—uh, stuff. I don't want to haul a pack all the way out there if there's nothing to fight and I'm just going to sit on my tail all day.”

“Be grateful you're not headed out to the Brand. My sire went out there after he became a gladium, looks twice his age now and he's only been there a few years...”

Something mumbled, the pair's heads bowed close to each other. He perked up slightly at the prospect of a secret, but then they burst out laughing. “Can you believe she...?” —“Haha, by Smodur's good eye, I actually can believe it.” —“She's such an idiot.” —“Slut, more like. Don't tell anyone, but...” Their voices softened again and he turned away.

“Did you hear about Lion's Arch? The city was completely leveled by that crazy Sylvari, Scarlet something...” Yes, he'd heard, and he almost wished he hadn't.

Tap, tap, tap. His claws clinked on the glass bottle. _What am I doing here anyways? She's probably not a danger. Azalus is dead, so no reason to investigate. I should--_

The sound of a plate sliding onto the table derailed his train of thought, and he looked up at Cirellen. “Total is seventy-five copper. Fifty for the meal, twenty-five for the drink.”

He nodded, and the coins clinked on the table. “What did you put on the meat? It smells good.”

“Balsamic vinegar, basil, thyme, oregano. I like the combination.”

“That's as good a recommendation as any.” He picked up a knife and fork. The taste was indeed pleasant, juicy and meaty with a slight tang. “You're a magician with the stuff.”

“No, I'm not. I wish.”

“You wish what? That you were a good cook? I'd have thought you knew that.” He had to raise his voice somewhat in the loud bar.

“I wish — what I wish is none of your business.” She frowned. “Enjoy your meal.”

He watched her make her way back to the bar, and for a while after that. The counter between her and the customers seemed to give her a certain sense of security — she smiled more, even laughed once or twice. Though that could have just been the fact that her sire was dead and not hunting her down anymore, or just that she'd never been very relaxed around him. The ease with which she navigated through the tables and customers spoke volumes about her experience. When a customer became too forward, he earned a kick for his troubles, but she was more subdued and a little hunched over for a while afterwards.

He was careful not to let his food grow cold, or to let her notice him observing her. _What am I doing here? Nothing better to do right now. She's a more interesting subject of observation than most._

He didn't let himself contemplate the implications of any of that.

***

At closing time, he was still sitting there alone, nursing his half-full third bottle of Blackroot and watching the clientele trickle out. She began to wipe down the tables, shooting him glances more and more often as it got later.

He didn't seem drunk, although he was too quiet to really tell. Sombre, as if he wanted to burn a hole through the table with his gaze. Or disappear.

“Waiting for someone? She stand you up?” She wasn't sure why she asked. It was an insult, really. Should be, since he was a crappy legionnaire. He deserved insults.

_Yes, fantastic idea to agonize the customers._

“She was in Lion's Arch. I assume you've heard the city was destroyed.” His tone was emotionless.

“Yeah, it's been tossed around the tavern a fair amount today. Some crazy twig.”

“Scarlet Briar's her name. She's been causing trouble for a while. Crashed some human festival, a while back, and they say some poisonous plant tower was her doing, too.”

“Right. We had a pack of Asura coming through at one point that couldn't talk about anything except the 'fascinating biological and structural properties' of the thing.” She made her voice squeak as she imitated the imps, and grimaced.

He laughed. “Yep, sounds like the little buggers. 'Bookahs—ooh, let me touch!' and then everything explodes. You hear about the accident in the Smelter?”

She laughed, too. “Yeah, good riddance. You almost wonder how they survived.”

“Dunno. High enough rate of reproduction, I guess. And maybe they get their golems to do their dirty work, usually?”

“Yeah, maybe.” The mind was a strange thing. She hadn't thought about her cubs in a year, but this mention of reproduction reminded her of Selia and Marek. Her mother would take care of Selia, she was sure — hopefully would be able to spare her more beatings than she had Cirellen — and Marek would be fine in the fahrar. He was a tough cub, would be a good warrior. She could be proud of them, maybe. And she wouldn't think about how they were conceived.

_Redirect._ She could feel the shivers coming on, and she knew the way to stop herself from succumbing was to turn her attention to something else. The squeaky-clean table was scrubbed with renewed vigor.

“I think you missed a spot.” Koreth pointed to the corner of the table with a small quirk of his mouth. It was clean, of course, and she glared at him.

“Is everything a joke to you? Do you ever care about anything?” It came out more venomous than she would have intended, as she was still trembling slightly.

He tilted his head to look at her, his pale green eyes gleaming beneath his hood. “Why do you care if I care?”

“Because if you don't, you're a complete ass, and I can treat you accordingly.”

“Is that the customer service policy here?” He chuckled, but only briefly. “Did it seem like I didn't care about Azalus?”

“I don't know what to think! You send him in on a suicide mission, he's probably dead and you come in trying to pin the blame on me! His friend!”

He was silent for a moment. “Think what you will.” He raised his bottle to his lips. _What I wouldn't give to dump the stuff all over him._

***

He didn't owe her any explanation, but after a moment it slipped out anyways. “The only reason we were out there on that mission was because of him.”

The Blackroot was calming. It tasted a little bitter, a little smoky, reminding him of his days at the Ash Headquarters, better days with his fahrar warband. And Vera. Of course Vera. _Damn. Why do I keep ordering this stuff?_

She was off taking payment from one of the last few customers, nodding and smiling. He didn't need smiles. He had never cared if anyone liked him—most didn't, so why bother?

He still watched her for a moment, before getting up himself to pay, leaving the only partially empty bottle on the table. The only people left in the bar was a pair of cubs giggling in the corner, talking and laughing with the occasional lick thrown in.

“The only reason we were out there on that mission was because of him,” he said as he laid the coins down on the counter for his second and third drinks. “Helping him with his own stupid vendetta. He probably would've died that way with or without my orders. Was he using you?”

She frowned and stared at him, not moving to take the coins. “What do you mean, 'using me'?” She bared her teeth, her tail beginning to flip from side to side as agitation entered her voice. “I already told you we weren't--”

“That's not what I meant.” He raised his voice to cut through what threatened to become a tirade or another physical attack. _Girl has serious issues._

“I meant, using you for information. Asking you about Flame Legion, Burn warband, anything like that?”

She frowned. “You think I was just a tool to him?”

“It's possible.”

“No, no it's not! He barely asked me anything! He protected me from my sire, he was teaching me how to fight! I wasn't just a—a thing to him!” She looked away, her teeth grit.

_And maybe he wasn't to you._ He could tell anything he said on the subject would just further agitate her and wouldn't help him any more in discerning the real nature of their relationship. _Not that it matters anymore._

“I believe you.” He wasn't sure that he did, but it was what she wanted to hear. She looked up, eyeing him with a mixture of wariness and something less hostile, something he couldn't quite pin down.  
“You do?”

“Yeah.”

***

He nodded towards the bar. “There's your coin.”

“Oh. Right. Thanks.” She counted them briefly, the fact that he believed her for once spinning through her head. It was—strange, to say the least. But pleasant. Feeling like she didn't have to fight for everything with him anymore, like someone would take her seriously again.

She lost track and had to start counting again, glancing up at him quickly. He was waiting patiently.

“It's right. You can go.”

Instead of heading for the door, he slid another few coppers on the counter. “Consider it a tip. The food was great.”

She eyed him for a moment, then slid them into her paw. “Thanks.” She wondered if he was playing at something—_but he believes you, you should believe him to be sincere, too._

“If it's not too much trouble—think you could stand giving me cooking lessons again? I still don't have anyone in the warband who can cook decently—although your lessons have certainly helped.”

“Uh, sure. I can ask my boss about using the kitchen here, or else we could use the Factorium ones again.”

“There's also a grill and stuff in Hero's Canton, if people get hungry and want to make their own food.” She tensed, a habit, formed from thinking about all those threats in the Canton. _But maybe they won't. They won't if they don't know. He seems to—to not want to rat me out. Or else he doesn't care._ She let out a breath, and nodded.

“Sure. Um, my shift changes from week to week, just come by and I'll see when I have time, once we've figured out the kitchen issue.”

He nodded again, once, and left. The entire exchange lingered in the back of her mind, though, as she finished wiping down and finally shoved the two giddy almost-lovers out the door.


	12. "Or Something"

Cirellen let out a long breath as the hands on the tavern clock inched closer to closing time. The job wasn't difficult in and of itself—cooking the same dishes time and time again and shoving bottles over the counter were things she could do in her sleep by now—but it wasn't anything she relished, and the customers could make it miserable if they wanted to.

She had had to pull her pistol to stop a fight today, and even then it had been touch-and-go. That had given her a new appreciation for the tavern's policy of “weapons are to be left at the door,” even though she hated listening to the dozens of complaints she got every day.

A rap on the bar made her head swivel towards it, her ears twitching. She neither sighed nor smiled when she saw him. He had given her more than enough reason to be wary around him, although hating him would be pretty ungrateful.

“Hail, Cirellen.” Koreth pushed his hood back. “I can still get a Blackroot, can't I?”

“We're not closed yet, are we?” She retrieved a bottle from under the counter. “More's the pity.”

He arched an eyebrow. “So eager to get off? Meeting someone afterwards?”

She snarled a “no”. He nodded once, and left it at that. _No sensitivity. Not that any male has any... Don't go there._

She turned and began to poke at the coals in the grill, feeling the pleasant heat escape.

“I guess you weren't treated well by the guys back then.” His voice was low, and he avoided any direct references, but she stiffened, a low growl forming in her throat. He continued, apparently oblivious. “Do you hate them all? Don't you miss... it? Are you determined to not have any partner for the rest of your life?”

She whirled, teeth bared and ears plastered to her head, unaware that she still held the poker in her paw until it collided with the solid wood bar, sending vibrations up to her paw and leaving a dent in the wood. The poker hit the floor with a clatter, but that too didn't really reach her consciousness.

“No, I don't miss _anything_ about it! Just because I tolerate you doesn't mean I'm going to do _anything_ of the sort with you! And yes, I'm perfectly happy not having anything to do with... _that_ ever again!” She couldn't recall narrowing her eyes, her vocalizations resembling an animalistic threat more than actual words.

“Noted. Thanks for letting me know.” Nonchalantly, he brought the bottle to his lips and tipped it back. “Not that I wanted anything from you. You're not my type. Just so we're clear.”

“Noted?! Great, it's fucking noted. _Never_ talk to me about _anything_ like that again, are we clear?!”

The few remaining patrons turned to look at her, and only their stares made her press her lips together and consider lowing her voice. Koreth, however, wasn't exactly staring—more like observing. As she met his gaze, he didn't turn away. “Sure. Clear as day. You hate it. Sad thing, but that's your business.”

She clutched the bar, her extended claws digging into the wood, and inhaled. _Breathe. How the hell can he keep drinking like nothing's wrong? _

Koreth took another drink, then spewed the liquid across the bar.

“What the hell?!” Cirellen's voice actually squeaked a bit towards the end, while his sounded outraged. Cubs might have yelled “jinx!” afterwards, but Cirellen was staring indignantly at her splattered tunic, and Koreth at his bottle.

“I think you'll owe me a tunic if the stains don't come out.”

“I think you owe me a new drink. This stuff tastes like raspberries mixed with dolyak dung.”

“It's Blackroot!” She was still agitated. _Breathe. You're at your job._

“No, it's not. Taste it yourself. If it was Blackroot I wouldn't have spit it out.” He held out the bottle towards her. _Idiot. Insensitive idiot. Breathe._ With a roll of her eyes she took it and sniffed. _Does smell weird._ She wrinkled her nose and tipped the bottle back, letting the liquid touch her tongue. Luckily, she remembered just in time not to spit it back into his bottle, though in hindsight it wouldn't really have mattered. The taste distracted her from her previous train of thought, though, which was a blessing.

“Ugh! I-I'm sorry.” She held up the bottle and looked at the label. “_Blackroot Ale – the Ash Legion specialty! Smooth, subtle, with a slightly bittersweet aftertaste, and plenty strong alcohol!_” it proclaimed.

“It looks—I can't imagine why—I guess the bottle was bad.” The entire situation confused her, and she was a bit too hasty in kneeling to retrieve another bottle from beneath the counter. Her elbow hit the counter, and she yelped. _I'm going to have far too many bruises after today._

“You all right?”

“Yes, I'm fine!” _Now you're sympathetic._ It was more aggressive than was really necessary, but she had intended it that way. Popping the cap off a new bottle, she slid the drink across the bar towards Koreth and turned away.

From behind her came, “You don't happen to have a penchant for mesmer magic, do you? Have you been training?” His voice had a slightly simplistic, ponderous tone.

She stilled. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“I seem to become slightly confused when you get agitated. Chaos magic would explain the ale, since the first sip seemed fine. And you look purple.”

“_You look purple.” It was mumbled, and he swiped a paw across his face. “I must've had too much alco-” -he hiccupped- “-hol earlier.” _

“You're not very purple. It's just a slight tint. I've heard it can be a side effect of chaos magic, that the caster takes on a lilac hue for the castee.” His voice sounded faint, far away.

“_Fix your skirts. 'S not sexy anymore.” He pulled up his pants, tying the drawstring clumsily. The knot was loose, so that it was later bound to come down, probably as he danced drunkenly on a table later that night. Of course the cream of the crop had to want her._

“By the Claw, tone it down! I didn't ask for a demonstration. Cirellen? You're staring right through me.”

_She straightened her skirt, smoothing a paw over it to try to remove the wrinkles. If it didn't look like anything had happened, it was a little easier to try to forget. Not that she ever could. He tripped as he turned to make his way back to the mess hall. “You di'n't see that.” His laugh echoed in her ears._

“Cirellen!” Her cheek stung, and she narrowed her eyes to stare into his, his muzzle inches from her own.

“Good. I don't know what just happened to you, but I suggest you pull yourself together, apologize to that customer” -he pointed with a claw to the female tapping her claws on the bar- “serve her, and clean up the little mess your demonstration caused. Don't! step on that broken glass. One fell behind the bar.”

***

She nodded, once, and turned to the waiting Blood Legion soldier, a smile on her face. Her movement were slow, careful. It was a facade she had to put effort into keeping up, obvious to him, but he wasn't sure an untrained eye would have noticed. _I don't recall having seen her actually smile._  
He wrinkled his forehead, watching as she mixed a Jack Cola – some new fad drink involving whiskey mixed with a disgusting new sweetened, bubbly human beverage—and began to mull over the mesmer instructors he knew. They would have to be discreet, skilled, female, most likely... there was Sonia, but he wasn't sure she'd be a good instructor, and he didn't want her looking into his connection with Cirellen.

Suddenly the _Cubs' Guide to Magic_ made sense, and he smiled. He stopped himself from automatically taking a gulp from his drink, instead sniffing at it and then letting the liquid barely touch his tongue. _Thank goodness it was spared her little episode this time around. She's a danger to more than just my drink._

Revenna would be a possibility, but she'd been stationed in Hoelbrak for a while now—at least that was the last word he'd received, besides a rumor that she was connected with the Order of Whispers now. She could really be anywhere. _Like Vera._ He took another drink.

Cirellen was now sweeping up pieces of the broken glass, and frowning. She dumped the stuff in the trash can, and he held out the bottle of Blackroot-turned-something-else. “Trash this, too. Please tell me that was intentional.”

The look on her face as her claws closed around the brown bottle told him everything.

“Right. I'll see what I can do to get you set up with a trainer.”

“What happened? Did I hit the bottle with my elbow or something?”

“I think it's called a small chaos storm. Little purple circle, right here on the bar. Tossed the glass off.” His paw traced its outline. “Don't ask me why mesmer stuff is always purple. Or why so many of them like butterflies.”

“I've never particularly liked them.” She met his eyes for a brief moment before turning and tossing the bottle into the trash can.

The sound of the glass breaking against the metal can was loud, and the female at the end of the bar flattened her ears against her head. “Can't a girl get some peace and quiet at the end of a workday!?”

“Sorry, miss.” Cirellen's voice was jut loud enough to be heard at the other end of the bar, and the Blood soldier nodded before tipping her glass back.

“I meant that as a joke. About the butterflies.”

“Then you suck at joking.”

“Or else you just don't get them.”

“I thought the point of a joke was for others to 'get it' and laugh.”

“I mean just you.”

“Is that the case?”

He paused for a moment. “Can't say. I don't often joke.”

“No practice. So you suck.”

“I'll never be satisfied with another bartender. Mine has to dish out free insults with the drinks.”

“Yours?” Her voice held a note of a growl, and he sighed.

“It's just a manner of speaking. The bartender who serves me, except most people are too lazy to care about the semantics and just say 'mine'. Can you stop flipping out at half the things I say?”

“Can you stop saying stuff I hate hearing?”

_I much prefer her like this._ The briefest of smiles flickered on his face, and then he began spinning the bottle on the counter again.

“You need a trainer. Know anyone in the Citadel already? I could try hooking you up with an acquaintance of mine, but she's in Hoelbrak or who-knows-where on assignment. I'm guessing travel isn't really an option.”

“Not really. Gates are expensive and I don't have that many days off.”

“Most trainers wouldn't be unsympathetic to your situation.”

She rolled her eyes. “I don't have that much disposable income for lessons, either.” Her voice was low.

“Trainers are on a fixed salary from the Citadel, so they're available to any soldier who wants to hone their skills. Now, I know you're not a soldier per se, but I don't think that'd make much of a difference. Give them a tip if it makes you feel better, but other than that...” He shrugged.

“And if they ask which warband I'm in?”

“Say Dusk. Shattersteel Detachment.”

It was a good thing she didn't have anything breakable in her paws, as her jaw slackened, surprise and disbelief flitting across it before her expression hardened. “Don't play me for a fool.”

“I'm not.”

“I'm not joining your warband. I'm not a warrior.”

She turned, grabbing a cloth, and wet it in the sink.

“I'm not asking.” He allowed himself a small smile. He loved these little games.

“Then what are you doing?” Her voice sounded calm on the surface, but the undercurrent of tension made his ears tingle pleasantly.

“I'm not doing anything.” He drained the last of his Blackroot, careful to keep his expression neutral. “You'll be the one doing the training. What I'll tell anyone who asks is this: she's a possible recruit who needed more training before I felt comfortable taking her on. As far as I know, she earns her living doing I-don't-care-what. Met her at the Factorium, seen her around the Serrated a few times.”

Shrugging slightly, he dug the coins for the liquor out of his pouch. “I assume you're okay with that?”

She was staring at him. He loved dramatic exits. “Feel free to put the cooking lessons on hold until you won't accidentally make fries taste like burnt fur.” The coins clinked on the counter, and she slid them into her palm, counting them one at a time as she continued to stare at him. His glee lessened somewhat at her gaze, for reasons he couldn't really say. _She should turn that on the enemy._

“You're sure? You're not screwing me over?” Low, with an undercurrent of a challenge.

“Why would I want to screw you over?” She was making this anticlimactic.

“That's not an answer.” The coins disappeared into the lockbox, and she resumed wiping down the counter.

The Blood female tapped her claws on the counter. “Another of same, please, bartender!”

Cirellen ignored her for a moment, glancing up at Koreth. He sighed. “No, I'm not screwing you over. No, I don't want you in my warband, but after you're no longer a danger to the establishment,” — he waved a paw around with a slight sneer — “'_Upon further evaluation the candidate was determined to not be a fit for the warband._'” He mimicked the pencil-pushers' officious tones. “Happy?”

“Yes. Thank you. I-I appreciate it.” She ducked her head once, and practically scampered off to pour another cocktail.

A mixture of irritation and contemplation occupied him as he left the tavern, tapping his claws on one of the many dagger sheaths hanging off his belt.

“That your boyfriend or somethin'?” The Jack-Cola-drinker's voice echoed out of the doors. He paused for a moment, his ears twitching, but didn't catch a reply.


End file.
